Piranha
by Rayfan
Summary: Close to finishing the next section, but life keeps getting in the way. It'll be up soon though. ... An exploration of what an exceptionally good guy might find himself doing in an exceptionally evil situation.
1. Death

_I rated this PG-13 for some swearing, some violence, and for some "mature" or disturbing situations in some chapters. No sex or excessive gore._

_ Disclaimer: The characters of Rayman and Ly belong to Ubi Soft. The situation/enemies of this story were suggested by the game Rayman 2, The Great Escape, but are different from the game. Otherwise, all other characters and the actual setting and incidents can be blamed on me. Any resemblance to any other characters, living, dead, or imaginary, is purely coincidental! This is a dark story, and Rayman is not always in his usual character, so be forewarned! © 2000, 2002 Rayfan  
_

**PIRANHA  
Chapter One: Death**

In absolute darkness, incarcerated in a coffin-like box that serves as cell, life support, and torture device all in one, Rayman is suspended. A procession of images moves across the blackness before his eyes, voices so real inside his ear that he would turn his head to look, if he could. Closing his eyes makes no difference. Pictures of the war, the events just preceding, during, and following the defeat of his planet and his own capture – the successes, the failures; his inspired ideas, his catastrophic errors. And then the one that comes back, over and over, crowds out all the rest, the picture that crushes a moan out of him: the picture of Ly, blindfolded, her hands tied, brutally struck, forced into a concrete coffin while he watched. He can't turn his head away from the sight, he can't close his eyes to it, he still hears her gasp of pain and shock as the metal fist strikes her head... And then seeing so many more of his people meet the same fate, thirty, fifty, a hundred, losing track of how many, seeing each of them locked away, for what unknown purpose – to die? – before he too is shut into an oblong grey concrete box. And, as he knows, thousands, tens of thousands more of his planet's people are still being captured, still being herded in and locked up somewhere on the immense pirate ship.

They had lost. They had lost. It was all his fault. His people were killed, enslaved, their world devastated, and it was all his fault. They had counted on him, and he had failed.

* * *

After having been forced to witness the fate of all his friends, he too had been thrust down into a coffin, lying horizontal on a waist-height pedestal, a box just large enough for him and its own machinery. Medical slaves had rapidly hooked up the many tubes and electrical leads of the life support system, along with the complex series of restraints that held him motionless. He had lain silent, glaring up at his tormentors with ferocity, although more than anything his awareness was fixated on how horribly difficult it was becoming to breathe.

And then, his enemy, Anaconda, the conqueror – had bent casually over him for a last look.

"Goodbye, Rayman," he smiled. Startling in the flat matte black of his metallic face, the small glowing yellow eyes were half-shuttered with satisfaction. "They explained to you about the life support system, I hope? You'll have a long life – as long as this ship keeps going. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years, who knows? _You_ won't... there's no time in the box. Or, there's _infinite_ time. So, bye-bye. It was a fun war, I'll miss you. I really will. Eh, maybe some day I'll drop by to see how you're doing. If I think of it. Enjoy your retirement. Sorry about no gold watch. Don't rust, now." And the heavy concrete lid scraped shut, slicing away the universe, bringing utter blackness.

Rayman had only glared at him with contempt. But after the lid was closed and the machine activated, and he felt something slow, burning cold, terrifying, like liquid nitrogen creeping into his body, like a mass of solid fire, his eyes opened wide in the darkness. His mouth opened, though no sound came out. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't. There was no air. And he was an explosion of raw animal panic.

Then he calmed. He almost chuckled. What? Resisting death? _Now?_

* * *

He is entombed. There is no light. There is silence, except for the faint clickings and sighings of the machine in its homeostatic operations. He can't touch anything, can't even feel the wires and tubing and restraints on him, at most can only sense the closeness of a rough surface just beyond his face, unseeable, unreachable. The only variety in his experience is the waxing and waning cycle of the pain. At its peak, red and gold explosions go off in his eyes, his brain whites out. At its lowest point, he is able to feel how desperately he wants to breathe. Yet though he can't seem to breathe, he is alive; and though something unnameable is searing him from the inside, atom by atom tearing him apart, he is conscious, he can't lose consciousness, he can't faint, he can't sleep, he can't quit, he can't give up. And he still knows where he is ... even if the idea that there was once another place beyond this pain – some other world of light, motion, life – seems more and more hallucination.

And the hallucination creeps closer, tempting him: its colour, its freshness, its light and air. It grows brighter, more vivid, he edges closer and closer to plunging in. There they are, his friends, his world, the trees and water and sky; faces, kind laughing eyes, outstretched hands.

And then there is Ly. On her knees, in tears, hands covering her beautiful eyes, devastation crashing all around her, so many falling trees, so many villages razed, so many clear rivers defiled, and the slaughter of so many _people_ ...

Now he sees her moaning, trying to writhe, unheard in her coffin; and he is back, fully aware, in his own. Only one thought grips him now: _What if the bastard does come back? What then? What then?_ _What then?_

He feels himself dying. He can't, he mustn't, he has to be ready, Anaconda might come back. The lid might crack open. He has to be ready.

He is dying. A deep coldness, a stillness, advance on him silently, under the distracting barrage of his agony; but he doesn't quite die. Perhaps this is how it's supposed to be, in the box. And all in the midst of his dying his mind goes on working, working, turning this way, that way, tearing like a panther into every possibility. Fighter as he was, Rayman never fought like this in that mythical time when he was alive.

Meanwhile, he doesn't know if hours have passed, or days, or years. Anaconda, as always, was right.

* * *

In the midst of that endless, timeless battle, something different happens. Something tugs at his attention, pulling him bit by bit out of the hell of his own body. There is a rumbling blast like the explosion of a planet, and then a nova, shattering brightness; then empty space. The concrete lid is being dragged open.

Despite his desperate effort to perceive, to see, to hear, it is a few moments before he is physically able to make out the face of his enemy smiling patronizingly down on him. He struggles harder, a ghastly effort to get air, to find his voice – he has to seize the chance before the tormentor closes the lid and goes away, never to return. But his half-paralyzed body responds sludgily, in slow motion. The tormentor stands over him, watching, grinning.

Rayman at last coughs and forces breath into his aching chest. Even as his dazzled, bewildered eyes still struggle to focus, his face becomes steady and composed. He looks up at his enemy with a strange mixture of a sort of honest recognition of helplessness, and an implacable self-possession that makes nothing of that helplessness.

Anaconda looks at him with some touch of recognition in his own eyes. "No screaming, no begging, and yet you're quite conscious," he says. "I have to grant you, you're a tough little bastard, pipsqueak."

Rayman is coughing, chest heaving in a savage attempt to activate his voice. "Listen," he gasps. "Listen."

"Make it quick."

Rayman looks into that narrow yellow gaze, his own large eyes now calm and focused, quietly angry, and showing a quiet, very quiet challenge. "I have an offer to make you," he whispers hoarsely. He can't speak any louder.

"Really," says his enemy. "What can you possibly have to offer me?"

Coolly, Rayman looks at him. "Myself," he says.

Anaconda's metallic eyebrows go up. "Yourself? Rayman, do I need to point out that I have you already?"

Rayman can't shake his head, but isn't there just the hint of a smile on his face now? "_Have _me? No, you don't," he says. "You have my body. A useless corpse. No, I'm offering you _me_. Your living enemy. To work for you."

"What? You to _work _for me? Why should I want ..." But the conqueror's voice falls away as he looks into those big eyes, that are now, despite utter defeat, despite obvious physical pain, very openly amused. The jaw-dropping arrogance of the little freak!

Rayman murmurs, lightly, "I'm useful."

Anaconda is silent. But he hasn't closed the lid. Rayman adds, "You know what I can do."

"Don't I!" snorts Anaconda. "So what makes you imagine I would trust you to 'do' all that for me?"

Rayman smiles at him collectedly. "Not possible to cheat on this deal."

"A deal, eh? I let you out and you work for me."

"No, no," Rayman says, "No. You let my friends out of these boxes, you free my people, you go away from my planet – and I work for you."

Smoothly, Anaconda turns a gasp into a laugh. "What! Even for a self-marketing slave, don't you think you price yourself a little high?"

Rayman closes his eyes, his smile now gentle, almost dreamy. "Well, you know ... the actual question is, what could something like me be worth to you?"

"Well, you conceited little–"

"Conceited? Think. Just how hard did you have to work to put me here? How many hundreds of men did you lose in the process? What did it cost you, in time, money, personnel, sheer aggravation, to take my planet? To track me down? ... How about having all that on _your_ side next time?"

Anaconda is starting to look thoughtful. "Rayman... You know what would be the consequence if you betrayed me by so much as a hair, a breath, a _thought." _

"Free my planet and my people and I won't ever think that thought."

"The torture wouldn't end with _you._ I know who your friends are. I know who–"

"Yes, yes, yes. Listen to me: If you accept my price, you will own me. You have my word. I'll serve you with all of my ability, all of it. I've led a whole planet in war. I can deal with that collection of louts you call a crew. You could conquer worlds in half the time, a quarter of the time – What's the value of one little green planet compared to the gold you'll get? Take yourself and your stooges away from my world forever, free the population, and I'll belong to you."

His enemy draws back a little, looking down at him with an odd, crafty, dawningly triumphant look. "Rayman," he murmurs, softly, smiling just barely. "Rayman. This could be very entertaining ... If I accepted your price ... Do you really understand what you're offering? What price _you'd_ have to pay?"

Rayman closes his eyes. He is silent for a moment. Then he says, quietly, "Yes."

Anaconda straightens up, grinning now. "You know... I believe you actually _would_ be simple enough to keep your word. I admit... it's a very inviting thought. And, of course, if you didn't... that could be interesting, too. ... But I really do think you actually, pathetically would. Well, well."

Rayman lies silent, eyes closed. A terrible coldness is soughing through him, from the center of him out, to his extremities, his head, he's reeling. He's done it. He has done it.

God help him, he's done it.

* * *

Anaconda is directing his servants. "Get him out of that thing. It must be possible. Take him to an empty officer's cabin, find him some clothes, wash him, feed him, all that. Send the call to the troops. We're shipping out."

Rayman's eyes open at that. "My friends," he says hoarsely.

"Oh, sure. We're still on your planet. Easy to take care of."

"I want to see _each one _of them out of the box, alive and well, and see them freed. Or I won't consider you've kept your side of the deal."

"Yes, yes, no problem. You, there, Ginsop, Malak – see to it. Do what he said."

Rayman squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of his pain and exhaustion. Just like that! As if it were nothing to him, that bastard, as if he'd have let them go anyway, the vile, loathsome bastard! And now Rayman is committed, he's committed himself, it's all over. He lies quietly spinning in vertigo, in weakness, while a group of human slaves begin to bustle around him, preparing for the lengthy process of disengaging him from the machine.

* * *

He is sitting, or rather reclining, on a hard bench near the exit from the ship. An old bathrobe is wrapped around him (his own clothes are long gone). He is painfully thin, wasted, debilitated, barely able to stand or walk. He can sit up only for short periods. But he rouses himself fiercely to make sure the pirates are keeping their side of the deal. Those huge dark eyes, feverishly bigger than ever, keep close watch as his friends are brought past him, one by one, to exit the ship.

Though none are as hard-hit as Rayman, they are all dazed, ill, weak. He gives each of them a sharp, evaluative glance as they approach. Then he looks away, does not meet their eyes, does not respond to their gasps of amazement and bewilderment at seeing him, at being released; he does not take their anxious hands. At most he whispers a barely audible goodbye. But with that one glance he makes sure that they are well enough to go, and he makes sure that they leave the ship; and his eyes intently follow each descent, step by step down the gangway to the brilliantly green earth below.

* * *

And then there is Ly. As she is brought to the door, he is sitting up. His eyes gape for an instant as she approaches. Then he turns away, swallowing. With a mad wrench she breaks free from her escort, she runs to him, seizes his hands. He keeps his face averted.

"Rayman! Oh, my god, you're alive! Are you all right? What are you doing here? Why are they letting us go?"

He murmurs hoarsely, "They didn't tell you?"

"They told me nothing, absolutely nothing, except that I was being sent back to the planet, and I see the others are too, nobody knows why."

He turns to face her, holding onto her hands; looks at her for a brief moment. "Are you okay, Ly?"

"I'm all right, but Rayman, you look–"

"–I was just released from the box like you. I'm doing better now. Ly, you have to leave, right away."

"Why are they letting us go?"

He looks away. "I ... I arranged it."

She stares at him. "You're coming too, aren't you?"

"– No."

"_What!" _But seeing the anguish on his face, she subsides. "But ..."

He is struggling with tears. She can feel the trembling of his hands.

"Rayman," she whispers, "Rayman, what did you do to free us?"

He is shivering, he looks like he is going to faint. He still won't meet her eyes.

"You couldn't have–" she says, slowly, "Rayman – you didn't agree to _give _them something?"

He lowers his eyes even more, swallows with difficulty.

"Oh, my god," she whispers. "Rayman – you _couldn't _– _you'd _never–"

Her hands are still in his, and he clenches them convulsively, painfully, as something like a bullet goes through him. Then he pulls away, hunches over, she sees tears welling from his shut eyes, and he hides his face.

Abruptly, dizzyingly, she is looking down into the abyss of his grief, it engulfs her too. Tears rush to her own eyes. She tries to put her arms around him, but he twists away, blocking her with his hands, and the pirates are there, dragging her away from him, and although she calls to him, does not take her eyes off him, cries out and even screams to him as she is forcibly marched out of the ship, he does not look up, does not meet her eyes, does not watch her go.

But he knows, he knows that she is gone.

And that she is safe.

And her world is safe.

* * *

At last all the people of Rayman's planet have been released, and the hundreds of members of the ship's crew have returned with all their equipment – not to mention a certain amount of last-minute loot. The ship takes off. Rayman watches through a porthole as his planet – so quickly, in a matter of minutes – dwindles and vanishes into the blackness of space, the twin suns of his world coalescing to a mere bright speck, which is soon swallowed up in the masses of bright specks crowding into the porthole.

Then he is led – shaky, stumbling, panting with weakness – to the cabin he has been given as a more convenient cell. He is shoved onto the bed, where he sprawls motionless, and the door of the room closes. He lies there alone. Nothing matters now.

Nothing matters. Except that he has a lifetime to get through. He has to stay alive, he has to follow through, he has to do what he promised; or his planet, every living innocent thing on it, will pay once again for his failure. His people's freedom, their safety, their existence, hang on the very thin thread of his life.

He lies on the bed, glazed eyes staring at nothing; can't stir to close them; spent, utterly, spent beyond exhaustion; spent beyond death. Yes, that's it. Beyond death.

[End of chapter]


	2. Falling

(See Chapter 1 for all disclaimers, credits, etc. Rayman is © UbiSoft, all other characters and the story are © Rayfan 2000, 2002.) (I should clarify, in view of the new RM 3 game coming out soon, that the character in this story is based primarily on the Rayman of Rayman 2, plus a few extrapolations of my own. Rayman's abilities and character keep changing from game to game!)

**Chapter Two: Falling**

Rayman was lying on the bed, eyes closed, seeing again the rows and rows, the rooms and rooms full of "coffins" that he had been led through on his way to the cabin. Stumbling along mechanically, dazed, weak, barely able to keep up with his guide, all his attention only on keeping upright, on lifting and dropping foot after foot after foot ... even so, some corner of his mind had been aware of those phalanxes of big grey-white boxes still holding prisoners, how many hundreds or thousands of prisoners from how many planets, stretching off in orderly rows into the distance. As he struggled forward, he had begun to _feel_ those boxes, the accumulated suffering they concealed, absorbed into the panting haze of his glazed perceptions.

And as he lay now sprawled on the bed, still faint and sick even after having slept for two days straight, a cruel vision of all those lost souls in torment, beings he had never seen, began to close in on him. They wafted like ghosts out of their coffins, crowded around him, clutched at him like diseased, deformed beggars, beat him into a ball, thrust him back towards the coffin he had escaped. He tried to push them away, but they were only shadows... Their unknown groping hands mingled and melded bewilderingly with hands known, loved, gone... Now and again he roused himself to defense, striking out feebly at merciless grasping hands, at eyeless, formless faces.

But then he moaned, covered his eyes, his ears, he curled up on the bed – he who alone of all had somehow talked his way out of a box – and he gave himself up to them, to their helpless rage, their pitiful agony, to that timeless, endless agony around him and before him and within him, he lay gasping in that agony like a newborn infant in poisoned air. Submerged, drowning, unable any longer to resist or even cry out, he lay twisted there on the bed, covered his eyes, and wept.

* * *

The tears were exhausted after a time, but the oppression only deepened. He lay motionless, crushed under the weight of thoughts that warred around and over him like the trampling of actual independent creatures, in convulsions and tortured jerks and thrusts that sometimes hit home to force a gasp out of him: his planet, his people, his friends, the box, all the boxes, the future, his enemy, those still in the boxes, the future, his stupidity, the known, the unknown, his intense vicious stupidity, Ly, friends, his village, his home, his future ... his enemy ... his future ... his actions ... his –

Once or twice someone came in to leave him food and water, which he didn't touch. Once the human doctor came in and checked his breathing, his ability to sit, stand, respond dully to a question, be exclaimed over ("You call this an anatomy? What keeps you _alive?"_), half-killed him by shining a light into his eyes, and then oddly put a hand on his head for an instant, as though the much smaller Rayman were a child, before again abandoning him to yammering solitude. Rayman sat unmoving for a long time on the bed as the doctor had left him. Even the minimal motion of lying down might open him to another barrage from those ravenous, pitiless, unknowing victims. He sat, slumped, eyes mostly closed, head low, swallowing from time to time...

Rayman was more practiced than most at endurance. But he had never had to endure anything like this. The box had been nothing to it. He sat, very still, in silence; he must not die; that was all he held on to, he was not allowed to die, he must not die.

At some point, he was led to see his enemy. Instantly practiced deceiver that he was, he roused himself to the right motions, he talked, he smiled unpleasantly, he said the right things, he promised he would get well. (He must not die.) He was taken back to his cell. He lay motionless just the way he collapsed onto the bed, and was sucked back down into the writhing maw of blackness.

[End of chapter]


	3. Limbo

(Same old disclaimers. Rayman is © UbiSoft, all other characters and story © 2000, 2003, Rayfan)

**Chapter Three: Limbo **

Rayman was being dredged up, a drowned, waterlogged corpse, from the depths of silent, twisting chaos; surfacing to an awareness of something, something moving, touching his face – something lightly stroking his face.

Instinctively he took hold of it. A hand. A little hand. Sitting next to him, on the edge of the bed, was a female, a young woman, human-like, but about his own size. An unruly shock of tawny-dusty coloured hair, pale golden face, light gold-brown eyes searching at him. He peered up at her dazedly.

"Oh, you're awake," she said, gravely.

He pushed himself carefully into a sitting position – he was very weak – and looked at her. She looked back at him, her mild eyes attentive, yet seeming somehow to miss him. For some time they regarded each other in silence. She didn't seem to mind his not speaking. She was only waiting, passively; as though she would have accepted for him to talk, to swear, to yell, to hit her, with as much detachment as she now sat watching him gape at her like an idiot. He blinked.

"Who are you?" he said, with a cough or two to locate his voice.

"Oh," she said, "I was sent to make you feel better." And she started to pull off her ragged shirt over her head.

With a jolt, he grabbed her hands. _"Don't_ do that," he gasped. Then he smiled wryly, letting her go. "Uh, you don't need to do that," he told her, starting over again. "That's not necessary."

She was looking bewildered. "But – the boss told me –"

He put a hand on her hand, shook his head. _"No,"_ he said.

His gaze took hold of hers very directly. Her light eyes widened. He gave her a small reassuring smile.

And abruptly the abyss sank its talons in him again, as though afraid he might climb out and get away. His body went cold. Tremulously, he lay down on his side, covering his face.

"Your boss," he whispered, shivering, "has a limited imagination."

* * *

She could not keep her eyes off that strange being as he lay, asleep or unconscious again, on the bed. He was much more ill than she had been told, frighteningly ill, and she could get in serious trouble if he didn't make it. But that wasn't what held her. It was the thought of his quiet voice, gentle, like nothing she had ever heard before ... no, like a very old, faintly stirring memory. And his eyes. That penetrating look he had given her – so brief, so weighed down with some awful sadness, and yet for all that addressed so intensely and powerfully to getting something through to _her._ As if she mattered.

He had touched her hand – not grabbing it, not taking possession of it, just _contacting_ it as though it really belonged to her. As if _she_ could own anything... He had looked at her with those eyes, dark, dark midnight blue, looking directly into her as though there were something there. As though he saw something. And something in her had stirred, strangely.

She kept seeing that look now every time she closed her eyes, it grabbed her unexpectedly when she was just about to stand up or turn around. She couldn't tell if the look frightened her or did something else. But she could not stop staring at him while he slept.

* * *

Returning to the bed from the cabin's tiny galley with a bronze goblet filled with wine-and-water, she found those eyes open and on her again. He didn't sit up.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she held out the cup. "Drink some water," she said. He ignored the cup and only fastened his eyes on her.

And for an instant she could not move. As though some startling force had taken hold of her, as though she were seized and held still by an intensely powerful, yet gentle grip; she felt a momentary warmth surround her, a sort of radiant energy.

Then he closed his eyes and it was gone. He was just an odd-looking little body crumpled on the bed.

She hesitated. But he was still breathing. "Hey," she said, touching his hand. "You have to drink something."

Those eyes opened again. She didn't feel that warm rush this time, or perhaps only the faintest echo of it. _"He_ sent you," he said in a low voice. "What did he tell you? I mean about me."

"Well... He said... he said you weren't used to the place yet... I should make you feel more at home. Help you relax."

Closing his eyes, he gave a small dry chuckle. "How touchingly considerate."

"It doesn't mean he wouldn't kill you," she said urgently. "Sooner or later he's going to think of you again, and then–"

"Oh, I know," he said, in that soft, sweet, slightly husky, dismissive voice that took such painful hold of her. Nothing must happen to this one, she couldn't bear it.

"Please," she said suddenly, surprising herself, "please, try to–"

He looked at her once more. Along with that weight of a sorrow so palpable she could feel it crushing down on her own back and shoulders, there was a glint of amusement. "What's that?" he said. "Will you get in trouble if I don't behave?"

Involuntarily her hands moved towards him but jerked back. "Maybe. I don't care. But you..."

She trailed off as her eyes caught a startling motion. His hands – big, strong-looking, independent, _unattached to anything_ – one of them stirred, moved towards her freely as white bird, gently enveloped her two hands together. She gasped. The sleeves of his oversized robe were there, all right, but they were hanging empty. His hands moved with no relation to them at all. Caught by the strangeness of his eyes, she hadn't more than glanced at the rest of him till now.

He sat up slowly, holding onto her hands, his eyes holding her gaze. Again she felt that sense of actual warmth, like an energy beam, a focus on her so intense, so penetrating that it stopped her moving, almost stopped her breathing. She was suspended in an aura, as though some magical force had lifted her, as though she was floating, held in a glow that was forceful, intensely penetrating and analytical ... and almost unbearably suffused with kindness.

After a moment, he lowered his eyes. She managed to take in a breath. There was an odd, crooked little smile on his face. He squeezed her hands a little and let her go. "You know," he said, "You know, I really think you're just what you seem to be."

She shook off a dizziness threatening to land her on the floor and picked up the goblet. She moved it close to him as though to help him drink. "Can you–can you drink a little? You haven't eaten in a long time. Aren't you hungry?"

He quivered suddenly. A hint of tears showed in the corners of his eyes. He turned to lie down, facing away from her. "Oh, god," he whispered, very low, "Oh, my god... and in this place."

"What?" she said.

He gave a choked little sound that was half a laugh. "Kindness. Of all things."

She shook her head. "What do you mean?" She reached out a small rough hand to touch the back of his head, that wiry, springy blond hair, that incomprehensible anguish.

But he turned back towards her again, and her hand stopped involuntarily.

He said, very quietly, "Thank you for coming by. I was – I was – well, anyway. Thank you." Closing his eyes – which instantly let his deep fatigue show through – he added, "Tell your boss that... I'll be able to get up... soon."

She swallowed. "Are you saying – you want me to go?"

He looked at her sharply. "Doesn't he want a report?"

She put her hands, still holding the water goblet, together in her lap, looked down into the liquid inside. "If–if you don't like me–"

His eyes were growing perplexed. "Don't like you?"

"Then he'll–he'll send someone else, maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"He _gave_ me to you."

Slowly, evidently with some difficulty, he sat up again. He only looked at her in silence, very intently, for quite a long time, until she wanted desperately to hide. She couldn't understand the look on his face, like sadness, or pain, but not exactly either. At last he put out a hand and touched her shoulder. "That son of a – Are you even a grownup? How old _are_ you?"

"What?" A worried look came into her face.

"How _old_ are you? Don't you know how old you are? Your age? How many years you've lived? ... Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

She stared at him in utter incomprehension. He abandoned the subject. With a tired smile, he said, "Well, so – you'd get in trouble, wouldn't you, if I didn't want you to stay."

She held out the goblet to him. "Aren't you thirsty?"

He sighed. Leaning forward, he took her hand, removing the goblet and putting it on a small bedside table. He held the hand, looking at it closely as if he'd never seen one before, pressing it softly, feeling its roughness, studying its broken nails and grime. Motionless, as though under a spell, she submitted.

"Have _you_... have you ever been in one of those – one of those grey boxes?" he whispered to her.

She gasped. "You mean the _torture _cells? Oh, no. No one ever–"

He put up a hand to quiet her. "The people in them – how long do they stay in there?"

She looked at him blankly. "Forever, of course."

His eyes squeezed shut, and he slumped back. His face was pale, drained. A sense of oppression she had been starting to feel, as if the very air in the room were trembling with pain and misery, grew heavier, thicker, the already dim light in the room seemed to darken. His body twisted a little on the bed.

"Oh, god," he whispered, "Oh, god, if I could only be _sure_ if what I did was right, or wrong... If only I could _know."_

"What you did? What did you do?" she ventured, timidly.

And it was if an avalanche of burning black rain cascaded from nowhere, flooding the room in an instant. Her breath halted, her body went stiff with shock, and a sensation of horror and anguish swept her helplessly away to drown in a torrent that drained into a vast well in whose bottomless depths glowed two blue-black eyes...

His hand was gripping her arm, his face was close to hers, the eyes were his eyes, peering at her anxiously. She jerked away, almost falling off the bed, and covered her face. He swallowed. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, "That shouldn't have hit you." Gently, he took hold of her arm again; she gave a frightened little gasp that made him jerk, too, as though stabbed.

He didn't let go of her, however. He moved a little closer beside her; he took her head and gently pulled it to his chest, so that she was lying stiffly against him. She didn't know how to resist, though she kept her hands tightly over her face. Slowly, without a word, as she listened numbly to the sounds of his breathing, he put a hand on her forehead, held it there; then began to stroke her forehead very lightly, pushing back her hair, slowly, soothingly.

And coming from somewhere, there was that same strange sensation that she had felt the first time she looked into his eyes – a directness, a depth of concentration that was the most uncompromisingly intimate contact she had ever known; and yet, at the same time, there was a quality of detachment, of calm remoteness, that spoke to her and yet asked nothing, that touched her but left her completely free; an emotional quality that was as different as possible from anything she had ever experienced from any other being, male, female, or robot.

Her hands came little by little away from her face, but otherwise she held still, her eyes closed, breathing in gasps. As her sense of fear and oppression waned, something else was growing. It wasn't fear she felt now. It was something she couldn't begin to express. It was like being just born. It was like a mother cat licking life into a new kitten, it was like being created, a soul being breathed into a clay model, something suffusing her that she could not name, could not grasp; but which melted her gradually into a new being, a new shape, new uncomprehended tears.

* * *

When she was no longer crying, when she was calm, he pressed his hands gently over her eyes for a moment – somehow conveying a world of kindness with the gesture – and laid her down on the bed. She remained there, silent, a few tears still leaking from her shut eyes, breathing slowly, unable to move, unable even to locate where she physically was. But there was no distress in her.

And Rayman sat there beside her for a while, moving his hands, putting them together, looking at them absently; glancing at the small, slender alien form beside him; looking around the room; taking the occasional deep breath.

For once, not drowning in black horror every time he turned his head. He took another breath. He could breathe. He moved his body a little. He could move. The – abyss held back its claws.

Slowly, he lay down a little apart from her. He closed his eyes. The thick black wave of anguish didn't surge to overwhelm him. He inhaled, shakily.

It was still there, the anguish, the horror. But it stayed down in its dark glutinous pool, only lapping at his feet.

There was something living, breathing beside him. Something alive and – innocent. Tears burned in his eyes for just a moment. He took a long breath. Something innocent.

* * *

Drifting in a half-hypnotic doze, she could not understand what had gone on between them, what might still be going on; but out of all her bewilderment, one certainty coalesced: Nothing must happen to this one. He was not like any other, in any way. She must not let anything happen.

If he didn't want her to take her clothes off, if he didn't want to do all those things men did, that didn't matter. It was because he was different, he would want different things. She would have to find out what he did want, and make sure he got it, so he would let her stay.

She sidled a little closer to him. He seemed to be sleeping. His body was very warm. She let her back inch up to touch his rounded back, just barely, and took a deep breath, unnerved by her own daring.

Silently – as though careful not to wake the rest of him – one of his hands came over to press her lightly on the shoulder, then returned to its place.

Nothing in her life had ever touched her with such calm. Again she felt a clench of determination: She must never lose this one.

Exhausted with emotions she could not name, she sank the rest of the way into sleep.

* * *

Rayman, too – after contemplating with shut eyes the startling detours of his fate in the last few days – finally yielded to the first sleep that, since coming out of the box, was able to give him any rest.

[End of chapter]


	4. Elly

(Same old disclaimers. Rayman is © UbiSoft, all other characters and story © 2000, 2003 Rayfan.)

**Chapter Four: Elly**

When she woke some hours later, knowing that it was about morning, ship time, he was still lying beside her. She sat up and looked at him. His eyes were open. As they turned to her, she saw tears. He blinked, tried to smile at her, then turned away, wiping his eyes.

"You know," he croaked – his breath caught, he tried again. "I – I don't know your name."

"It's Elly," she said. "And the boss told me you were called Rayman."

"Yeah," he said chokedly, "I've been called that."

"Are you still – why are you so – why are you so sad?"

He was smiling ruefully now. "I'm all right. It's just– it's just hard to keep away the little – sword-thoughts – they ambush... I'm okay."

She was getting up, checking the water goblet on the table (it hadn't been touched), taking it back to the galley for fresh water. She returned with the water, with a small wooden board with bread and cheese and a knife. Watching her, he had to smile, privately – her motions, the posture of her body, the tossing of her tousled, unevenly hacked-off hair – everything about her was so serious, so fiercely determined ... except for the subdued anxiety in her eyes. At the bedside, she hesitated.

"You'll eat now – won't you?"

He sat up. "Yes," he said. And smiled again at the visible sigh of relief that ran through her body.

* * *

He wouldn't eat much, but he drank a little water, ate a few mouthfuls of bread. "Later," he said, pushing the rest away. She didn't insist, but took the board back to the galley, leaving the water. He sat quietly, leaning against the headboard of the bed, eyes half shut.

"You look tired," she said. "Why don't you sleep some more?"

He grimaced. "Not now," he said. "Started dreaming again." He sighed, looked around. "I do feel stronger," he said. "I think I can get up."

"I'll help you to the bathroom."

He looked up at her, a little quizzical grin on his face. "Okay," he said. "All right, Elly." Smiling wryly, he took the dirty, ragged, voluminous pink bathrobe he was draped in and tied it more securely around himself. He inverted the sleeves so that they fell inside the robe instead of dangling outside.

Then he let her support his trunk as he gingerly found his feet, and she steered him carefully across the floor to the small bathroom next to the galley. He paused as she half-pushed him through the door.

"Uh, Elly, you know–"

"Should I come in and help you?"

He made a sound somewhere between a cough and a sneeze. "Er–no, that's okay. Just–"

"Don't feel bad about it, I know you're sick–"

He chuckled. "Never mind." He went into the bathroom.

She was waiting in the exact same spot, face to face, only his nose between them when he opened the door again. Startled, he jerked back, almost fell.

"Here," she said, "I'll help you back to the bed." His eyebrows went up but he submitted as she half-carried him across the room.

When he was lying down again, his eyelids already sinking, she stood nervously beside the bed, eyeing him.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled, finally.

She rocked on her feet. Then she said, "You're – you're awfully light. You shouldn't be that light. I can practically pick you up. And – Is your body supposed to be that way?"

"What way?"

"I mean–" She gestured at his limbs, or lack thereof.

He grinned. "You think I mislaid them? Or maybe they were stolen sometime while I was asleep?"

She lowered her eyes, blushed. He said, much more gently, still smiling at her, "Elly. I shouldn't tease you. Just ignore me... I must be starting to feel better."

* * *

She was afraid she might have made him angry, but he only chuckled quietly and turned onto his side. After a while his slowed breathing showed he had gone back to sleep. She sat still, afraid that even her getting off the bed might wake him up. While he slept, her eyes combed over him, carefully, nervously itemizing each element: The big rounded nose and huge closed eyes, the separated humps of his torso and feet under the blanket, the powerful hands, one under and one on top of the blanket, and the wiry, springy, bright yellow hair, most of it sticking up in two lively tufts, moving a little with his breathing. Even in sleep, his odd, curiously appealing face showed tension, a play of thought, shifting emotion. A vitality and intelligence more attractive than beauty.

Compared to this peculiar being, all the pirates that she had ever known, robot or human, even Anaconda himself, scarcely seemed to be alive. That was the most forceful thing about him, even ill, even asleep: he was so passionately _alive._ Though it was subdued now, vitality radiated from him, glowed around him, an almost visible aura.

* * *

And when, after half an hour, his body jerked suddenly, twisted and gasped, his eyes snapped open, and he sat up in the bed, moaned, and covered his eyes with his hands – she almost fell into those eyes, those hands, and had to cover her mouth to keep from echoing his moan. A chasm of anguish, as though she were being dragged rapidly down into an ocean by a huge weight – then, quite suddenly, she didn't feel it. But the misery was still burning in his eyes. It seemed to burn right through the lids when he closed them.

He pulled himself together, literally, all his extremities coming in close to his body. He pressed his hands to his chest and abdomen, lying on his back, looking up helplessly at the ceiling as if some hope might suddenly appear from there. "See, Elly," he murmured hoarsely, "I don't know – I don't know how I'm going to be able to –

"Oh, god, to have lost everything – my home... my planet (oh, my beautiful planet!)... everyone I know... all my friends... I'll never see any of them again. It's hard, hard. But the worst –" He twisted on the bed, covering his eyes again. "It's – _did I do the right thing?_ Did I do the right thing? No matter how many times I go over it, I can't – _should _I have done it? But what else could I have done? Should I have done _nothing?_ How could I have left them all in those boxes? How could _that _have been right?"

His eyes opened, fixed on her, and she started back involuntarily. The suffering in them was terrible.

"And how am I going to pull this off," he said, with intense, forced calm, "if I can't believe it's right? How can I possibly have any strength to act if I doubt myself? God knows it's going to take everything I've got – I have to be able to give it everything. Do you see what I'm saying? I've never had to – to act against my own conscience before! I – I don't think I _can._ Ly – oh, Ly ... even she didn't –" He turned away, pressed himself against the bed. His body was quaking.

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, quietly, "Rayman, if you want to cry, you should go ahead and do it. You're alone. No one will see you here."

He stopped quivering. For a few moments he lay motionless. Then he turned himself over slowly and met her eyes. He had such a perplexing, bemused expression that she couldn't imagine what he must be thinking. She must have said something horribly wrong–

He sat up. That wry smile of his. He leaned forward and took her little chin in his hand, cupping her thin face with his palm. There was that sense of warmth she had felt before, that powerful sense of his attention focused fully on her. Such a strange look in his eyes, not at all happy, and yet with a new colour, a brightness, an intensity of interest, as though he were in fact looking at her for the first time. Even a sort of distant tenderness. A tiny shiver ran through her.

"So I'm alone, am I, Elly?" He took his hand away from her face, though not his eyes. "But I'm not, am I." He looked at her sadly, as if he'd just realized what he'd said. "No. No, there's this unaccountable _child_ here I keep trying to drag down into my own happy little hell." He wiped a hand across his face.

Taking her hand in both of his, he said quietly, "Elly. Tell me about you. Tell me your story."

"I don't have any stories. Unless you want the ones the pirates tell?"

He smiled gently. "I mean, tell me how you ended up here."

"You know that. _He_ sent me."

"I mean – Elly, here, on this ship, among these brutes, in this situation – How did you get here? How long have you been here? How have you survived here?"

She blinked at him blankly, so completely at a loss that he wondered if she actually did have any memory. Then her eyebrows raised with surprise.

_"Oh._ You mean... The time before. You really want to know about _that?"_ She wrinkled her nose with distaste.

"Yes," he said, _"that._ Tell me."

Elly said, "The time before... I don't know. I don't really remember. I mostly only know what my mother used to say. She said before we were here on this ship, we lived in something she called a village. I had a father and some brothers, she said. She said my village – when I was small, it was raided by _them_. The pirates. They took my mother away with them, and she hid me in her clothes and brought me with her. They killed my father and my brothers.

_"He_–the boss– he liked my mother and he kept her for himself. Nobody paid any attention to me, except her. I do remember those times. She wouldn't let me in his cabin. I ran around and hid and slept in corridors and rooms nearby. She would come and find me when she could. She got me bits of food, sneaked me part of what she had to eat. She wouldn't tell me anything that was happening and she hardly talked to me, only told me to be silent, be silent, only hugged me to her so hard I couldn't eat until she went away.

"And I hung around where the men were eating and drinking and I grabbed whatever they left, whenever I had a chance, and now and then somebody noticed me and threw some scraps at me for a joke. I hardly ever got to see my mother but sometimes I heard her crying or screaming from _his_ cabin."

Rayman was watching her closely, but said nothing. She went on impassively.

"After a while she died, and I had a lot of trouble getting anything to eat. I was always hungry – that's mostly what I remember, always being so hungry. I was scared sometimes, but mostly just hungry. The robots never paid much attention to me, but when I got bigger, some of the men started to notice me, and they fed me more often. They would pinch me, laugh at me, sometimes push me around, but mostly they didn't hurt me on purpose.

"Then they started to get interested in me for sex, and that was the first time I was able to ask for food. After the first few times, I found out that they would give me something first if I asked for it, or sometimes not until after. Then after a while they would let me take a little food when they ate, even if I didn't do anything for it.

"I was lucky _he_ never seemed to like me, so he left me alone. But he knew I was there, because once he ordered me brought to him. He took off my clothes, looked me over. Then he threw my clothes back at me and said I would do after I was washed, and someone took me in to a man, some big man who was visiting the ship. A few times after that he ordered me sent in to one man or another, visitors that he wanted something from."

"You were spying for him?"

"Spying? What's that? I wasn't anything important, just a gift, you know. Those were usually the worst men – oh, the worst. Worse than the pirates." She closed her eyes and winced.

He looked at her sombrely, took her hand again. "Not an easy life, Elly."

She said, "Not easy? No, it hasn't been so hard really. Not since I got bigger. At least I don't have to go down to the planets and fight and get killed like the pirates. And the boss hasn't paid much attention to me. That was lucky. And only once or twice has somebody tried very hard to kill me, and I was lucky – both times, there were pirates there who stopped the guy and killed him instead. They might just as well have helped him. I've never been tortured, I've never been sold off the ship... I don't really know how come I've had such luck."

Looking at her, at her innocent acceptance of such a life, Rayman felt a deep gnaw of shame at his own grief for his own loss – the loss of a life so rich, in friendship, in beauty, in happiness. Though that didn't make his loss any the less bitter.

He closed his eyes for a moment. As his body grew stronger, recovering from torture and illness, he was becoming more and more aware of the real cause of his anguish. The evil just lurching into sight, so enormous, so sickening, he still could only glance at it for instants. That vast black thing that was encroaching on him, that was beginning to bare its grinning teeth at the small bright spark it was about to engulf into its immense, pathless, lightless, stifling depths.

He took a long breath and again put his attention on the girl.

"So, Elly ..." he said, smiling quietly, "I guess I'm not the only piece of flotsam to wash up in this cabin ..."

A flash of hope surged through her eyes, so nakedly that he felt a twinge of despair. "Does that mean you'll let me stay?" she breathed.

"I didn't think that decision was up to me. Elly, do you know who I am, what I'm doing on this ship?"

She gazed at him consideringly.

"I don't know who you are. I can't really tell. All the men I've been given to before were – it was easy to tell, they had power and the boss wanted to have some of it. Or to have power over them. But you– I heard some pirates say that _you'd_ been – But that's not possible."

"A captive. A prisoner. I'm a – I belong to Anaconda."

Her brow wrinkled. "It can't be true. If you were a slave, you couldn't have power. But you do."

He smiled at her with very sad, though also mildly amused, eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Elly. I have no power at all on this ship. I'm about as close to nothing and nobody as it's possible to be."

She shook her head. "If you were, he wouldn't send me to you. And–" She swallowed, and pulled her hands into her lap, huddled a little. "You–you have some kind of power, Rayman. It isn't like Anaconda's, or Blargh's. I don't know what it is. But you have it. – I've never met anyone like you." As she turned her wide, timid, wistful eyes on him, again he felt another internal wince. He had seen that kind of look before in his life, and although he understood it, it was not one he wanted to see now.

He gave her a little grin. "Don't get funny ideas about me, Elly. I'm just a guy who likes to lie around and snooze... play games... tell tall stories... mess around in boats..."

"Boats? What's a boat?"

"What's a _boat?_ Why... it's sort of like this ship... only very small – mine was only big enough for two or three people – and it floats on water, you know, on a planet, instead of flying through space. Mine was made of wood."

He could see her trying to bend her mind around transforming the vast pirate spaceship into a tiny floating bowl. Then, something slowly ignited in the depths of her eyes, they grew very wide, her mouth formed an astonished O.

"A _boat..._ a little... _wooden_... Oh!" She stared at him so stricken that for a moment he thought she was in pain. Her hands went involuntarily to her mouth. "I _see_ it! It's... it's from the time before... so _that's_ what that was!" Her pale golden eyes were huge and round; for the first time he noticed what a pretty colour they were. "I've dreamed of it! I know what a boat is, I've _seen_ a boat! A little boat... I've dreamed of it sometimes, and I had no idea what it was – who that man in it was... That man who looked so big... It was my father." She closed her eyes, almost gasping now as she tried to talk. "My father in the boat. I think _I_ was in that boat too. I was so small... So little... Crossing the lake... In the little... boat. My father's boat. It had... _oars._" She gazed again at Rayman, transfixed. "I can see it, just as it was. We lived by water. A ... lake. My father had a boat. He had... nets... he caught things in the water..."

He smiled at her. "How about that, Elly!"

A tear wobbled down her cheek. "Rayman... I remembered. I remembered something about my home." More tears. "Oh, I'm seeing more and more of it. The lake, the woods around it, our little house, the road leading to the village... Oh, it's like I've never seen it before, and like I've never left it... I see my mother, my father, my brothers... Oh, Rayman... I had no memories of my own, I only knew my mother's words. They were just words, they weren't real. I never _saw_ what anything _looked _like. Or _felt _like. Or knew ... what a family... was like." She was smiling a little now, though through still more tears. "Oh, everything, the whole thing, the whole world, everyone, all the people, the village, it's all there again, it's so _real, _oh, I can see my mother's ... beautiful eyes... hear her _voice..._"

Rayman smiled at her kindly, squeezed her hand.

But as she clutched his hand in return, as her eyes focused on him, the look in those eyes, of naked awe, as though he had personally bestowed the memory on her by some arcane magic... It made him want to cry himself.

But at least, after such a long sleep, bit by bit she was awakening.

* * *

It was some time before Elly was able to pull herself out of her emotions to return to her proper duty. She was able to do it only after she realized abruptly that Rayman was standing in front of her, holding out a cup to her as she had done earlier to him. He had gotten her a drink!

"You probably need this by now," he was saying. "Memories can make you awfully thirsty..."

"You mustn't do that!" she gasped, scandalized. She snatched the cup and slammed it onto the table, jumped off the bed and shoved him, almost flung him sprawling onto it. From a very awkward position he gaped at her.

"I'm your slave," she snapped at him. "You _don't_ serve me!"

"Okay–okay–okay," he winced, submissively, holding up his hands.

"And you shouldn't be walking around! You're not well yet, are you?"

He was rearranging himself in a somewhat more organized fashion on the bed. "Not entirely, Elly, but I'm getting there. And I can't stay in bed much longer."

She was bustling around the cabin now in a fury fuelled by guilt. He had caught her not doing her job! What would happen! She strode back to him with a tray of food and plunked it down in front of him with such a look that he didn't say a word, just obediently began to eat.

After several mouthfuls, though, as she was starting to look slightly appeased, he ventured, "Hm, Elly – how about you?"

She jumped. "What?"

"Have you eaten anything?"

"...No..."

"Well then. I hope I'm not violating protocol, but will you please eat with me? It'd make me feel better." He smiled internally at her suspicious look. He put on one of his most winning expressions. "Please?"

Silently, she went and got herself a tray and returned to the edge of the bed. Sitting stiffly, she tried to eat. As her anger had subsided... now she hardly had the courage to look at him. The slightly mischievous glint that danced in and out of his eyes at moments only made her the more nervous.

Still, by the time they were both finished eating, she was able to take the little smile he aimed at her and offer him a tiny, timid, apologetic one in return.

* * *

After their meal, Rayman lay down while Elly cleaned up. As she returned, he opened his eyes, smiled rather comfortably, but didn't get up.

"You're tired," she said. "Go to sleep."

"I am tired," he agreed. "How long have I been in this cabin, Elly?"

She thought. "The doctor told me he thought you hadn't eaten or drunk for three days, before I was sent here," she said. "And I came to this cabin yesterday night, you woke up after a few hours... Now it's evening, I think. So I've been here about a day. So that makes four days?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm going to have to start – _my_ job pretty soon..." he muttered. And, after his cheerfulness of the past hour or two, it was as if a gust of freezing wind had blasted across his body.

"Rayman. Go to sleep," said Elly, gently. Startled, he opened his eyes. In that brief instant he had almost lost track of her presence. ...And the gentleness in her voice was something he hadn't heard before.

"Elly," he said quietly, "I want you to understand something... It means a lot to me that you came here. If you hadn't showed up... I'm not sure I would've been able to ... escape my own mind... my own thoughts ... I don't know if I would have recovered."

She said, matter-of-factly, "I came because Anaconda sent me."

He rolled his eyes. "No thanks to him. He had no idea what he was sending."

She gazed at him in perplexity. He smiled at her.

"Why don't you get some sleep too. Go ahead, lie down. This bed's more than big enough for two runts like us."

She frowned, then said, thoughtfully, "Funny... I guess really you _aren't_ all that big... Somehow you seem so much bigger than you are. Like you ... fill up the room, somehow."

Abruptly, his eyes filled with tears. He closed them, clenching his fists. She watched, alarmed, as he fought for a moment, struggled, gave a small sob, and then turned onto his side, hiding his face.

"Oh, Elly," he moaned, "Oh, god, Elly, I thought I had looked it in the eye... the beast... the _future_... I was fooling myself, I hadn't. And now it's coming ... That big sick yellow eye is hunting me down..." He huddled into a compact ball on the bed, mostly bathrobe.

"What is it, Rayman? What's wrong?"

He sobbed again. "Oh, Elly, what will be left of me? Oh, my god, how will I do it? How will I be able to do it?"

Anxiously, she reached over to lay a hand on his side.

As her hand touched him, he seized it, he flipped himself over, he grabbed hold of her arm and pressed his head against her side, clutching her body with a painful grip. Hesitantly, she put a hand on his head. He clung on to her even harder. She could feel him minutely trembling.

"Rayman," she said.

_"No!" _he gasped. "No... no. That guy – he's dead. He died. He died in that box. His life is finished." A hoarse breath. "And now – whatever I am – I have to continue on – some sort of afterlife ... in hell." He was silent for a moment, still gripping her as though frozen into place. "Elly... What do I have to become... to be able to ... to be able to cope with that. With living in hell. _Belonging_ to hell. Oh, god, Elly!"

His voice fell away, but he held on to her, heavy tremors running through his body, his breathing harsh, effortful; and neither of them spoke for a long time. She didn't dare stir, although his clench on her was becoming so painful she began to imagine the bones of her hip giving way.

But, at last, he loosed his grip. Slowly, he moved away from her and sat up on the bed. He wrung his hands together a little, as though they too hurt. He looked at her sombrely, a silent apology in those dark eyes; and also, behind that, a new hardness.

"Well," he said, "I began something, didn't I. I started it. That's how it is. I have to finish it. That is how it is." There was a pause. He lowered his head.

"It's not like I'm so innocent ... I've been in wars ... I've done a lot of violent things ... but..." For an instant the anguish crept back into his eyes. He sighed, and literally shoved the thought away, gesturing across his forehead with a big hand. He gave his head a shake, and looked at her with firmness. "Elly," he said. "I'm going to need help. Will you help me?"

"I'll–I'll do anything you want."

He smiled at her a little, with a dawn of that tender light in his eyes that made her breath catch. But then he pushed that too away. His voice, though, was very gentle when he spoke.

"You know, Elly, little girl... I think you're kind of fond of me... and I am of you, too. I like you a lot." He lay down, closing his eyes, obviously weary. "I'll still be fond of you... try to remember that... when things change."

She stared at him. "Change? Rayman... I don't understand."

He didn't open his eyes. "You will."

[End of chapter]


	5. Hide and Seek, Part 1

__

(A/N: This is the first half of Chapter 5 - it was so long I thought I'd better split it up. I know not much happens in this section, but bear with me, please. The pace picks up more in Part 2.)

(See chapter 1 for full credits, but Rayman is © UbiSoft Entertainment, story and other characters © Rayfan, 2003.)

****

Chapter Five: Hide and Seek, Part One

Elly jolted awake as a hand gripped her shoulder. She sat upright with a gasp.

It was Rayman, standing grinning beside the bed.

"Come on, Elly!" he said. "Can't sleep now, we have work to do!"

"Isn't it the middle of the night?" She looked around for clues as to the time. The ship's lighting and temperature automatically lowered during the "night" hours.

"Yeah, exactly. C'mon, get up."

As she unwrapped herself from the blankets, shivering, Rayman was pacing in long rapid strides around the room. He halted at last and said, abruptly, "Do they guard me here? I haven't seen or heard anything."

"You were so sick I think they stopped after they sent me. I've only heard a guard pass by a couple of times during the day. I told you, the boss probably isn't thinking about you right now. He doesn't think a lot about things he doesn't see."

Rayman looked at her wryly. "Survive by staying out of sight, eh?"

She had involuntarily hunched a little, wrapped her arms around herself, making herself small. She looked up at him with wide serious eyes. "Yes. I don't like him to see me."

Rayman had recommenced his pacing. "So I can leave here then without being noticed?"

"At this time? I think so. But where do you want to go?"

He stopped beside the table and swerved to look at her. He snatched something yellow-green and silver, almost as long as he was, off the table and held it out, giving it an impatient flap.

Elly gazed at it with some surprise. "That looks like an old jacket of Hellio's," she said. "He's been dead since... a long time. Where did that come from? Are those all old clothes on the table?"

Rayman threw it disgustedly back onto the table and turned back to her.

"That's right. Elly, I've been digging through every cupboard and drawer in this cabin, I can't find anything usable. I mean, what kind of clothes are these? All decorated with metal and shiny stuff. Not to mention that they're five times my size... But they look ridiculous."

Elly shrugged. "Hellio liked that kind of thing."

"Well, I don't. And I have to have something. Look at me!" He made an impatient, half-laughing gesture indicating his dirty, hopelessly oversized bathrobe, wrapped so many times around him he resembled a round pink bonbon, and tied up at the bottom to keep him from tripping. "Imagine trying to terrify a shipful of vicious pirates looking like this! Heck, imagine trying to run without - unwinding! Elly, I need real clothes. And I need-" He stopped. He smiled grimly. "There's a lot to be done and it has to be done quickly. Very, very quickly."

"All right," said Elly. Then she added, _"Terrify?"_

He chuckled. "Ah, how I talk."

After a quick meal and some discussion, Elly led Rayman out into the corridor. (It felt eerie to him, disorienting, after so many days in a small room to be moving through the endless, half-lit, shadow-filled, twisting hallways, looming with bulky wooden crates and metal storage boxes. Even more disorienting, at least in this section the ship looked as though it had grown rather than been constructed, a senseless tangle of corridors, some with walls of wood like an old-fashioned boat, giving way to others with dented, scratched metallic bulkheads, all contorted, looping back on themselves, joining at weird angles, an unmappable nightmare. But Elly knew her way through.) They crept quietly through the dark. Rayman now and then took her arm to halt her, they held still and silent for a moment as he listened intently. The corridors were deserted, however.

They passed through several junctions, went down a level - "Elevators are noisy, let's take the stairs," Rayman murmured to her - and arrived finally at a cavernous, nearly unlit corridor, and then at an oversized, cracked, chipped, but very thick wooden door that looked as though it had been stolen many ages ago from some barn. It had no button or handle, but an old-fashioned, worn leather strap attached to it. Elly took hold of the strap, and with all her strength dragged on it until it slowly began to slide sideways. As it opened, Rayman put a hand into the crack and gave the door a shove. It slid suddenly several feet - nearly toppling Elly, who was still hauling on the strap. She gave a startled squeak, he grabbed her arm before she fell and steadied her. Then they moved cautiously into the unlit room.

Elly held up her lantern. There was little visible but darkness which swallowed up that feeble light without revealing any limits. At what seemed star-like distances, Rayman could make out tiny glassy and metallic reflected glints scintillating all around.

"This is just the _storage room?"_ he asked Elly. "What's out there?"

"Let's close the door first," she whispered. She went over to the wall near the door and, as Rayman yanked the door shut, she located a light switch. She turned it on.

The room was immense, bigger than most buildings Rayman had been inside in his life. It was crammed, heaped, strewn with junk of incredible variety, the plunder of countless raids on countless planets: everything from broken chairs to bundles of velvet drapes, tables, filing cabinets, clothing, game pieces, decorative knickknacks, books, boots, alien beasts in various states of taxidermy, blankets, plates, costume jewellery, helmets, the occasional suit of armour... some things neatly stacked, most simply tossed into piles; some of it appearing very ancient, all of it very dusty, and the majority of it broken, rusty, dirty, torn, or playing host to a number of rare species of mould.

Rayman stared. "This must have been collecting for centuries," he said. His voice echoed a little in the depths of the room.

"It's only leftovers," Elly said, with a shrug. "Booty that isn't worth anything. Possessions nobody else wanted to take when a pirate got killed. Junk. But sometimes I find things that are useful."

Rayman stepped forward and, reaching carefully over a delicately balanced heap, gingerly pulled on something black. After a couple of sharp tugs it came free - a big hat.

Coughing, he beat some of the dust off it. He looked it over. Then a little smile quirked at his mouth.

"I see what you mean," he said.

* * *

To comb through that ramshackle vista of rubbish was a daunting project. However, they tackled it methodically. Picking through the disorganized heaps and clusters of junk, they began to tease out a small pile of their own, of things in decent condition that might be of use - various items of clothing, belts, buckles, bolts of cloth, together with other random odds and ends pounced on by Rayman that made no particular sense to Elly. But it wasn't a speedy process.

"We need to get back to the cabin," she said at last, nervously. "It's got to be near morning. You don't want to be found in the hallways."

"How often does anyone come in here?" Rayman asked.

"Hardly ever."

"That's what I thought. Elly, let's stay here today. There's a lot to do, and there are still some other things I need to look for. You can go get some food and water and bring it here when it's safe."

"What else are you looking for?"

"Various things... Like this for instance." From a fold in his robe he took out a black scabbard half the length of Elly's arm. He drew from it a dagger that glinted in the wan overhead light. "It's in good shape, isn't it?" he said softly. "Not a speck of rust."

"Weapons?" Elly said. "Any weapons you find are going to be useless, Rayman. They wouldn't dump them in here unless they were broken or too old to be worth bothering with."

Rayman slid the knife back into its housing with a soft _snick_ and tucked it back into his clothing. His eyes flicked towards her and away again, half-shuttered, looking suddenly hard, tired, a little wary, nervously on edge. "Useless is kind of a relative term, isn't it? Right now, any something is better than nothing. - What's that up there?"

Cautiously, they scrambled up onto another shifting junk heap. Rayman picked up a small wooden box containing a thin, tubular, ornately carved metal and wood object, which widened at one end into a curved handle.

"Is this some kind of gun, Elly?"

She didn't want to touch it. "Yes, of course."

"I've never seen anything quite like this before. How does it work?" He turned it over and over, carefully, examining its moving parts.

"I couldn't tell you. I don't know anything about guns." She winced. "Except that I know you pull that thing there and the bullet comes out here!"

He smiled a little. With a look of intense concentration, he again rapidly inspected it. "It's not loaded," he said. "Seems clean though, considering. Parts work smoothly. Not damaged. Not even that dusty, it hasn't been here all that long."

Elly pointed to a small bag also contained in the box. "That looks like a powder case. I've seen those. Sometimes the pirates use old pistols like that in duels for fun. They load them with stuff from that kind of bag."

With the same concentration, Rayman inspected the bag. Then, as Elly watched in surprise, he shook a little powder into the gun muzzle, inserted a metal pellet, pushed it in with a thin stick, all from the bag. He put a little more black powder into a sort of cup on top of the gun.

Then he held the thing up, pointed it carefully at a picture some twenty feet away, leaning up against an old chest of drawers (a particularly hideous portrait of a pirate that looked as though it might have been painted by a group of monkeys), pulled back the flint mechanism, gritted his teeth, and fired.

The recoil from the gun flung him right off the heap he stood on. He flipped backwards, crash-landing some feet away, rolled end over end down the hill, setting off a minor junkslide, and stopped with a thud at the bottom. An assortment of small trinkets slithered after him.

Elly scrambled down quickly, brushed the dust and rubbish off his face as he lay blinking. He lifted his head with a small groan.

"Boy, those things pack a kick, don't they? I didn't think about that."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, sure." He got to his feet, hunted around till he retrieved the gun, and climbed back up the hill. Again he loaded it, and, as Elly, still at the bottom of the hill, covered her ears, waiting for him to be launched once more into the air, he again fired at the portrait.

This time, lightweight though he was, he didn't budge from his spot. He looked over to where he'd aimed, then grinned down at Elly. Climbing up beside him, she took in a sharp breath. The two of them scrambled over to see. The bullet had pierced the pirate's face right in the middle of the nose.

"I was aiming for between the eyes," he said. "A couple of inches off. Not bad for a first shot, eh? Well, the _other_ first shot didn't count." He drew back his lips a little in distaste as he examined the bullet hole.

"How did you know how do that, if you've never seen one before?" she asked him, as they returned to the heap of their own adopted possessions. Rayman tossed the gun and the powder bag in their box carelessly onto the pile.

He shrugged. "I pay attention."

Using as a pattern an old shirt that more or less fit him, they took some of the cloth they'd found, and scissors, needles and thread that Elly kept hidden, and worked out how to make something he could wear. Elly had often had to repair or make clothes for herself and for the pirates, and though a little disconcerted to be creating a shirt with no visible exits, she was able to come up with something that he found reasonably comfortable. The prospect of escaping the bathrobe seemed to cheer Rayman up a good deal. As she worked, he continued to explore the room, coming up with new items of clothing that could be altered to fit him, and apparently further ideas.

She sewed as quickly as she could, while still doing good work - Rayman had insisted particularly that the clothes needed to be well made, thick, and strong - but after a while, she found herself sitting with the work in her hands, her fingers holding the needle. Her eyes focused far down the room, on him, that comical little pink-swathed form hopping from one big malformed hump of junk to another, digging doglike into the side of a mountain of trinkets, narrowly dodging another avalanche, sneezing explosively at the dust billowing up, and coughing and laughing all at the same time.

And it came to her that she was smiling. That was something she hadn't done very often in her life. Until lately. The past few days. And she realized, too, that what she was smiling at was - the sensation of _life_, how else could you put it, a feeling of life vibrating the air around her. Which was something else practically unknown in her existence on the ship (rather the opposite). ...Yes, a liveliness, an outward motion, an enthusiastic reach so intense that in its aura, anything, even clambering over heaps of shifting dust and trash, even her small patient work with the needle, became a matter of delight.

And deep inside her chest she felt there was growing a little center, a reflection, a concentration of that delight. It radiated out to cradle, to warm her whole being. It was something she had never experienced before, except perhaps as an infant in her mother's arms.

And it was by far the strongest when her eyes focused on him, on the source of the radiation. On Rayman.

As she gazed at him, after a while he paused. His head turned to look in her direction. He smiled a little.

Her own smile disappeared as he got up and started over towards her. Quickly she turned her eyes to her sewing.

He went to his personal junk pile to toss on another object. Again he turned to look at her.

"Elly," he said, in a gentle, wryly teasing tone. "Elly, you know, not to startle you or anything... but you look _happy."_

She blushed painfully, as though caught in a horrible indiscretion. As she spoke, her voice cracked uncomfortably. "Happy? Is this happy? I'm not even sure what that word means."

"No wonder," he said. "Here. Let me check."

He walked right up to her. He put his face so close to hers that he was about to push her over with his nose. He shut one eye and peered with the other deep into her wavering glance, fixated her mercilessly, his own eye bright, wide, merry; glinting a little with mischief as she blushed even harder. "Hm," he said. "There's something down there... Wait." Grinning slyly, he pulled out an ancient nautical spyglass, opened it up, and putting it right to her eye, pretended to peer in. "Hmm," he rumbled, now in a ponderous, authoritative voice, "Hm! Yesss... Just as I thought." And he announced, with finality, as if having established a scientific fact, "I regret to inform you, Miss: it's definitely happiness. Very bad case." Folding up the little telescope and sliding it into a pocket. "Nice to see that," he added quietly. And he beamed at her, with such a self-mocking, good-natured air, as if inviting her to laugh at his nonsense, that she blushed more than ever.

Then his eyes flickered, his gaze slid away from her. His smile faded. He turned to go back to his hunt. "Elly, kid... Better get back to work."

She did. Oddly enough, despite the excruciating embarrassment he had just put her through, that deep low purr of happiness was still there.

After he had completed his survey of the room, he returned and settled down to help Elly with the work. She showed him what she was doing and how to do it, which he picked up with his usual speed. As they worked, side by side, she noticed a look of a sort of ironic mischief on his face; he chuckled from time to time, privately, as he made a new hole in a belt with his sharp dagger, polished an old buckle, or with surprisingly fine rapid stitches sewed up a seam she had cut to alter a jacket; he seemed to find it all a pretty good joke, although he didn't explain why.

Eventually he sent her out of the room to scrounge up some food and water while he continued the work. And when she returned, he had completed many of the alterations she had shown him how to do, as well as adding some unexpected details of construction or decoration here and there that made her gasp with surprise.

"Why, that jacket's _beautiful!"_ she told him. "And it'll stay on even if you don't button it! How does it look on you? Try it on!"

The sparkling light in his eyes went dark instantly. He tossed the jacket aside. "Not now," he said in a low voice. "Not right now. Elly, what have you got to eat?"

They cleared a spot on the floor and began their meal.

"Elly," Rayman said as they ate, "The fact is, I hardly know anything about this ship and these pirates, except what I saw of them on the planet. Can you fill me in?"

She put down her food. "About what?"

"Well, you said before that you - um - they - uh - well, let's say, are the pirates really robots? I thought they were, but I get the idea from some things you've said that, uh, maybe they're not."

She blushed. "Some of them are. The important ones are. Maybe the ones they sent to your planet mostly were. But there are lots who aren't, lots of them are human type beings."

"Like you?"

"Oh, but much bigger. They come from a lot of places. I think that when the robots capture prisoners from different planets sometimes they make them into pirates. There are a lot of them, maybe even more human pirates than robots." She blushed again. "I wouldn't have survived on this ship if it hadn't been for them. The robots aren't interested in me. And they don't eat! But they have slaves too. There are a lot of slaves on the ship, mostly humans. They do a lot of the work, and they make the food for the human prisoners and pirates and so on."

Rayman was absently shredding a bit of bread. "Okay. And... how does Anaconda run the ship? How does he choose his, his targets? How often do they land on a new planet? Do all the pirates share in the booty? What kind of..."

He stopped. Elly was looking at him with a piteous expression. "Oh," he said. "I'm sorry. That's okay, don't worry, I'll find out for myself."

They were quiet for a little while, picking at their food. After a few mouthfuls, Rayman seemed to have lost all interest in eating, only methodically mashing his bread and cheese into an indistinguishable lump while his thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

Finally, Elly said, "Rayman... aren't you hungry?"

His eyes came reluctantly into focus. "What? Oh." He looked at his food. "Yuck. Sorry, Elly, I didn't mean to waste it."

She reached into her small food sack. "There's a little more if you-"

He shook his head, putting up a hand. "No, don't bother. I don't want any."

"But you asked me to get it."

He chuckled. "Well, _you_ need to eat once in a while, too, don't you?"

She looked at the floor, miserably. She wasn't being allowed to do her job again.

"Look," he said, "Would it make you feel any better if I - if I tried to explain why you shouldn't worry about me? Because I get the feeling you, ah, do."

He pushed the food away and shifted over to sit a little closer to her. "I really don't like to talk about this, usually, but, well. It's about the way this body I have is different from your kind."

Although by this time she had almost forgotten how startling she'd found him at first, she focused on him now with new attention. He looked at her earnestly, though with some unease.

"It's an odd thing, Elly," he said, "but I've come to think that maybe _all _people from other planets aren't like my kind. All the ones I meet seem to be made, well, more or less like you. Even most of the other creatures on my own planet are like you. So it's no wonder you think I'm weird. Come on, I know you do. Why not? I was pretty startled myself by _your_ kind when I first saw one.

"But since then I've seen lots of solid-bodies. I think I've finally managed to figure them out.

"Of course, you know solid bodies are made of all this - heavy scaffolding. Well, mine isn't." He smiled, diffidently. "Yeah - see, my kind operate just by - well, we just _move,_ we don't use a framework to do it. Light and easy. Seems so completely simple to me, but if I ever say anything about it to a solid-body I get this same blank look...

"I guess you can say my kind is made of energy. We move by directly handling energy. You get what I mean? My body's not just these parts you see, it's a - _field_, an energy field that changes in size and shape, and the more solid parts move within it. It's so ridiculously simple!

"What I really don't get is why the scaffolding style of body caught on and the energy kind didn't. I have to admit... solid-bodies always seem to me to be - well, heh, limping around on crutches. But maybe a person doesn't have to be as... energetic, to handle a propped-up body like that.

"No, I really couldn't figure out solid-bodies at first. I thought they were machines, like robots. Except that they were obviously alive. But the interesting thing, to me, Elly, is that I've finally come to see that solid-bodies aren't really all that different after all. Okay, yes, an energy body is lighter, tougher, stronger maybe, can take heavier blows and energy impacts, needs less fuel and maintenance, all that; after all, matter's kind of smashable stuff, isn't it? But even if they're made out of some different sort of stuff, solid-bodies have a living energy field too. They run their bodies the same way really; the living energy is still what moves the body. Only with less ... confidence - like they need the reassurance of all that solidity, or something. They trust the scaffolding more than their own energy. ...You use energy to move a leg, I use energy to move without a leg... Well, honest, it seems simple enough to _me!_

"You don't think we're the same that way? No? Well, why do you think you could - you could feel my emotions the other day? That's just perception of the energy field. Yours perceiving mine, _you_ perceiving _me_... Why do you think I could ... Well, anyway, I can control the energy of my own body and maybe sometimes affect the energy of someone else's, depending on circumstances ... It's nothing unusual. No, no, it's perfectly ordinary. You could do it too if you didn't worry about it and just started trusting your own perception. You _do_ do it. Everybody does.

"You're not buying this, are you, Elly? Yeah, well, I've noticed solid-bodies usually don't seem to have much confidence in their own - their own power. Only in scaffolding. ... Well, it doesn't matter really."

She was thinking it over. She said, "What about the robots? Aren't they alive too?"

He looked at her with sudden sharp attention. "Alive? Do they seem alive to you?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, they do, they _are_."

He seemed to be intently working over this bit of information. "Alive? Maybe it could be. I don't know how, but then I don't know how any of us are alive, when you get down to it, where the field comes from. But if they're alive, you could sense that."

They were quiet for a few moments. Then, shyly, Elly moved a little closer to him. She put a hand a little closer yet to his face, looking at him, at her hand; closing her eyes. He watched her, his quiet smile gradually brightening as he understood what she was doing.

She opened her eyes at last and glanced at him, blushing a little. She said, "I think you're right. At least about you. Because I think I can feel it-what you said."

He said softly, "It's not just me. It's only easier with me because I'm, heh - I'm louder! Crude and unabashed, noisy and not discreet like shy little solid-bodies!" He looked at her, as she was embarrassedly struggling not to avert her eyes, and his little grin changed, melted, glowed, the dark blue eyes luminous.

"Oh, Elly, little girl, you won't take any of this stuff personally, will you?" he added, in that soft, rough, wrenchingly sweet voice that had emerged once or twice before, that permeated her body like sunlight. "What I was saying had nothing to do with you. You're no solid-body. You're pure light itself."

She had to look away then. There was too much life in those eyes, they didn't allow anything to hide from them.

And at the same time, she had caught a glimpse of something buried deep in their depths, something silent, so dark and sad she couldn't bear to look at it.

But he was smiling. He gave her a little conspiratorial nudge. He whispered, "Handling energy... I have a few other little tricks. Check this out, Elly."

He held out a hand, palm up, and as she looked at it a faint golden sparkle began to form in the cup of the palm. Her mouth opened, her eyes widened.

But almost immediately after the sparkle had begun to form, Rayman gasped. He yanked his hand back in against his chest, he doubled over, pulled his whole body together tightly, and squeezed shut his eyes.

"Rayman?"

"I forgot," he whispered, his body rocking slightly. "I can't. I can't. Can't do that here."

"Here? Rayman, what's going on?"

Suddenly much more pale and haggard than he had been in the past two days, he looked at her ruefully. "See, Elly. It's just... He's got me, that bastard. He's got me. I promised to work for him, and I will. _But if he thinks_ he's going to have me fighting for him with _this_ weapon, well... _he can think again."_ The last words a low growl.

"- I don't believe I can even physically do it out here, away from-" He sighed deeply. "Away from the - power, the magic, the - love, of my home. And I'm _glad._ Because I couldn't stand it. It gives me - it gives me the horrors even to imagine. That power was something that belonged to - belonged to... _Rayman_ ... to his life, his people, his world ... to protect them. Anaconda can't have it."

"But - you _are_ Rayman."

He looked at her sombrely. "No. I told you before. ... You call me that, but... that's just because I guess I have to be called something." He grinned, uncomfortably. "I... actually, it... it's pretty painful even to hear ... It's... it's like an accusation."

Elly didn't know what to say. He smiled at her, that sad, quirky smile she had seen so often, that both reassured her and tore into her like a knife.

"I told you, Elly. Things are going to change." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that caught a little going in. Then the small smile again, with a thin edge of bitterness this time. "When try I look at the future, I feel as though I'm asleep, dreaming. Sleepwalking. But soon I'll have no choice but to wake up, won't I; or the Boss will be kind enough to give me a nudge, in his own sweetly encouraging fashion. Right? So, I'm not about to just wait for him. No, no-ho - No."

He tried to smile. But his teeth clenched, his lip curled back, his big hands abruptly became fists, disproportionately huge, hard as boulders, and Elly gasped at the whitehot flash of rage that seared through the room.

And it was gone. He looked at her, shaking his head. "Not doing too well with keeping that in yet, am I," he muttered. "It'll get better. When I'm sane again. If I ever am. Oh, god. Oh, god. That _bastard."_

* * *

It was at least late afternoon, and there was still a lot of sewing to be done. Elly worked at it doggedly, though her eyes were starting to blur now and again. Rayman was out sifting through more piles of junk; she was startled alert by the occasional cataclysmic sneeze. She kept on; thinking about the clothes, how they might look on him when they were finished; thinking about the things he had said that afternoon; about how the better she got to know him, somehow, in some way, the more of a puzzle he was to her; her eyes coming in and out of focus, and her thoughts beginning to sprawl.

She was sitting motionless, with the needle halfway through a stitch, when she felt something pull the sewing out of her hand. She started; opened her eyes.

Rayman's amused face. "Go take a nap, Elly. It's been a short night and a long day, I know. Go on, lie down somewhere, I'll work on this."

"A-aren't you tired?"

"Yeah, I am too. I'll take a rest after you get up. Go on now."

An hour's nap left her almost more sleepy than before, but she got up, returned, and firmly took the sewing back from those hands that looked far too big to handle that little needle with such agility. Rayman looked up at her with his crooked grin. She pointed over to the pile of old velvet drapes she'd been lying on.

"They're pretty comfortable," she said. "I shook the dust out of them."

"I dunno," he said, "you look awfully dusty to me! Okay, okay. All right, I'm going." He went.

He was obviously asleep almost before his body was fully horizontal.

Half an hour later, he was up again, sneaking quietly off to snoop some more around the room. Concentrating hard on her work, Elly didn't even notice he wasn't lying down until something poked her lightly in the back, almost making her stab herself. She let out a shriek.

Rayman hastily came around in front of her. "Oh, I'm sorry," he stammered.

She was trying to catch her breath, her gold-brown eyes glancing around wildly.

Rayman put his hands on her shoulders to calm her. Reflexively, her body jerked away.

He took hold of her shoulders again, with a gentle, firm grip, and crouched down in front of her, looking into her face.

She was already calming down, cringing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No, don't be sorry," he said. "You okay now?"

"I'm okay. Oh, I'm really-"

"No," he said. "Don't be sorry." His rueful smile.

It was late night now. They had been in the storage room, working hard, for close to a full 24-hour day. After spending more time helping with the clothes, adapting some boots and gloves to his body style, Rayman had taken one last tour around the place. He returned holding a small fighting knife. He showed it to Elly, shaking his head.

"This isn't going to work," he said. He went over to the nearby pile of things he had collected and began to go through it, separating out the items he still wanted to keep. "I'm going to have to have something more than a couple of knives and that little exploding toy. When those brutes attacked my planet, they carried some major firepower. And some of them seemed to have it built in. Elly, do you have any possible idea how I could get a real gun? Any kind at all? In fact, more than one?"

Elly sighed, finishing off a last stitch. "There are other storage rooms besides this," she said. "And there are weapon storage rooms. But I've never tried to get into one. I'd have to talk someone into letting me in..."

He stopped what he was doing and turned towards her. "No. Don't put yourself into that kind of danger."

"I don't think it would be dangerous-"

"They all know you're with me, don't they? It would be dangerous."

She looked at him with growing surprise. "Do you think so? Why?"

He went back to his pile. "It _is_ dangerous, and it's going to get much more so. You're not just you anymore, Elly. You're associated with me. Don't let them know you're looking for weapons. In fact, best not to be seen at all any more than you can avoid."

She came over to help him sort the pile. "I'm sure I can get into the weapons storage rooms at night. They're not guarded much. The things in there aren't so valuable, they're just the everyday weapons everybody has. But I'll have to sneak in, and I have to find things that aren't locked up; and that will take time."

"Time," said Rayman, "That's something I'm rapidly running out of. Probably already have." He looked at her sombrely. "Do what you can, Elly. I was sick for too long; and frankly I'm getting very concerned about somebody deciding to take an interest in me."

Then, with a small sweet smile, he touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, yes," he added. "I did find one thing that was kind of important." And he showed her two large empty sacks. "Booty transporters!"

He grinned at her. After a moment, looking into his smiling eyes, she found herself with a little grin on her own face, in return.

[End of Ch. 5, Part 1]


	6. Hide and Seek, Part 2

A/N: This should probably be named as a separate chapter, but it's really the second half of Chapter 5 (which got out of hand) … and the last part of the beginning section of the story. Hope it was worth the wait!

As we all know, Rayman is © UbiSoft Entertainment, and all the rest is my fault! Story and characters © 2003 Rayfan.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Hide and Seek (concluded): **

It was again the middle of the night when they emerged cautiously from the storage room to return to the cabin, each carrying a bag of "booty." Rayman was more comfortable now having acquired some underclothes, as well as an old loose, long, grey sailor's shirt, gathered tightly together at the neck to hold it on, and tied with a piece of rope for a belt. He had even managed to put together some soft leather medieval-looking slippers that just tied around his feet like little bags – but they were an improvement over being barefoot. The ragged bathrobe he consigned, with a brief sarcastic ceremony, to one of the junk heaps. The finished and unfinished clothes they had made or altered, he packed into the bag, along with materials to make more.

They went back the way they had come, scurrying cautiously through the branching corridors, pausing frequently to listen for intruders, padding up the stairs with their burdens rather than taking the elevators.

They were in the middle of a corridor when they both heard it – distant echoing footfalls, far down a nearby branch. They halted, glanced at each other, and silently dived behind one of the stacks of large, heavy wooden crates scattered throughout the halls. They pulled their bags awkwardly into the cramped space and waited. Rayman shifted past Elly so that he was nearer the narrow way in.

It was a horrendously long wait, but the heavy treading feet became slowly louder, emerged from the branch corridor, then turned and came down the hallway towards them, passing the stack of crates.

Rayman glanced at Elly. She stood leaning back against the wall, a little tense but calm.

When he moved, though, she started, silently grabbed his hand, shook her head.

Gently, he pulled away. He jumped high up, grabbing the top of the tall crate, and soundlessly hoisted himself up to lie flat on it, creeping to the edge so he could see.

What he saw was the back of two large pirates as they swayed down the corridor. It was his first good look at any pirates since arriving on the ship. They were robots. No. They were human.

In the dim light, seeing them from above and behind, he realized that he had been misled not only by their trucklike size and lumbering gait, but by the amount of bright metal they both wore on their clothes – although each wore it differently in size, position, and shape, nothing like a uniform. Still, both had their upper backs covered by what looked like metal plating, both had strips of metallic stuff along their arms, legs, and sides. One wore shiny gloves. And their presumably human heads were hidden from his view by two identical triangular black hats – the traditional pirate hats he had seen the invaders of his planet wear, perched absurdly atop those huge frames. On a first glance in the semidark, these two did resemble the thick, heavily armoured, sometimes clothed robots that had infested his planet.

On the other hand, their occasionally sprawling, uncoordinated movements weren't so suggestive of machinery. Nor was the reek of alcohol, still hanging in the air even after they had fumbled themselves around a corner into another passageway. Just before they disappeared, one of them abruptly fractured the quiet with a line or two of an off-colour song, sung even more off-key and then waveringly repeated. The other one thumped him audibly in the side, apparently setting off a series of hiccups and belches that did very little to improve either the volume or the artistic effect of the song rendition. There was another thump and an exasperated growl as they turned the corner. Rayman waited until the sound of protests, song snatches, and thumping had retreated far down the hallway, then slid back down to the floor beside Elly.

"What's the deal with the metal? Are they wearing armour?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Some of them try to look like robots," she said.

He raised his eyebrows, then shook his head. "Right," he said. "Let's go."

They made their way quickly after that through the several levels and corridors that took them towards their own cabin. On the way, Rayman stopped frequently, looking around him more carefully than he had coming out.

"Elly," he whispered. "Where would I find Anaconda?"

Elly dropped her bag. _"Now?"_ she faltered.

He grinned. "No, not now. In the daytime."

She said, "He walks around through the ship most of the day, especially the ... the prisoner parts and the navigation parts. And he spends a lot of time in the – they call it the war room. That's where the officers meet to plan attacks. He'll probably be in there most of the time right now because they'll be landing soon."

Rayman put down his bag and looked at her. "Landing?"

"You know, landing on a new planet. To conquer it."

He was silent a moment. "How do you know that?"

Elly shrugged, as though at a loss to explain the obvious. "It's just time, that's all. We've been in space for days. Long enough to rest up from the last one."

He closed his eyes, briefly, standing there. Then he said, "So, Elly, where is this war room? And the sections you were talking about?"

She looked around uneasily. "Mostly up three levels from here and – I can show you the way before we go back to the cabin. But we can't go into those sections now. Those parts of the ship are always patrolled, night and day. We couldn't get through without being seen. They wouldn't care much about me, but ..."

Rayman picked up his bag again. "Okay, then. Just show me how to get there."

"We'd better hurry," she said, shouldering her bag as well. "It's late."

* * *

As they approached their cabin, Rayman halted suddenly, grabbing Elly's arm so hard she squeaked. He held still, not even breathing. She too held her breath. There wasn't a sound. But then she saw what he was looking at – a door, far down the corridor near their cabin, was open. Not just open – as she peered through the distance and darkness, she could see it was broken, smashed in.

Rayman was glancing around the hallway. Silently he moved towards a closed cabin door, pulling Elly with him. There was a key in the door, as in all the unoccupied rooms. Very slowly, wincing at the slight scraping noise he couldn't avoid, he turned the key. He stood at the door for a moment, then put down his bag, pushed Elly gently a little distance away. He took hold of the handle, hesitated, then flung the door open, lunging into the room, landing in a half-crouch.

There was no one there. He made a swift circuit of the room to be sure, then waved Elly to come in. Dragging both of the bags, she did. She closed the door behind her – Rayman jumping over to grab it himself as she pushed it shut, slowing it carefully so it closed without a sound. He stood there a moment, ear against the door, listening intently. Then he turned to her.

"Well," he whispered, grinning a little, "I guess we're in the market for some new real estate."

Elly was gazing at him, at the door, at him again. "D'you think that was about you, Rayman?"

"What, are they in the habit of breaking down doors just as a regular thing around here?"

"... Nooo... No. But why would -"

"Nobody else seems to stay in the cabins around here, do they? This whole wing looks pretty abandoned."

"It's the old section, they only use it when the ship's overflowing. Nobody's lived around here for a long time. Except a few guests like you."

He gazed at her with wry amusement. "Guests? I appreciate that little sample of ship's hospitality down the hall, but – somehow I don't feel so welcome."

"That wasn't even your door, Rayman. They might not have touched yours at all."

"True. But I don't really want to go and count how many other doors they, uh, examined. It's time to move on."

Elly sat down in a chair and sighed. Rayman came up beside her, touched her shoulder lightly.

"I know you're tired, Elly. So am I. But we can't sleep until we find another place. I've already been getting pretty restless, waiting for something like this to happen."

She said nothing, but lowered her head, twisting her fingers together.

"See, Elly," he said, sitting down in the other chair by the table, "There are a lot of pirates on this ship. You yourself told me they're alive, even if they're robots. That means they have opinions. And they don't necessarily all have the same opinion as Anaconda. Anaconda, well, he decided to – to take me on. That doesn't mean all his officers and crew want me around. A lot of them know me. I don't want any surprise visits, you see what I mean?"

And while Elly was thinking this over, her eyes widening, he added, "And I wouldn't say I have total confidence in Anaconda himself, either. So we need to be ... elusive. While we still have a chance to be." He looked around the room. "I don't know when they came by down there, but I'd prefer to be farther away, and it doesn't sound like anyone's around right now to see or hear us. So let's go."

She got out of the chair, stretched, sighed. "All right," she said. "I'm ready."

Once again they hoisted their bulky bags and slipped out of the room. As he was closing the door, though, Rayman paused. After turning the key quietly in the lock, he removed it and replaced it with the key to their old cabin door, which he had been carrying. Elly watched him in silence.

Without a word they returned back down the hallway the way they'd come.

But once they were further away, he could no longer hold back his thoughts, whispering rapidly to her as they scouted through the maze of corridors. "I've been thinking about this, Elly. We need several bases. Each one with a cache of food and arms. We need to find alternative ways out of these cabins. I've checked the air ducts. You and I are small enough to fit into them. _They_ aren't. Point for us! We've got to explore the ducts in the area and map out routes... And I'd like to see what's under the floorboards in these cabins, how much space there is. It could come in handy..."

"You sound like you're preparing for a war."

"Right," he said. "How about this room here?"

It was a perfectly ordinary wooden door like all the others. The big metal key sticking out of the lock turned with some reluctance. They went in.

_"Ugh,"_ said Elly. "Nobody's been in here in a long time."

"Perfect," Rayman said.

Turning on a small light, they checked out the room. Although so long abandoned that even the floor was dusty, it was much like the other two cabins: a bed, a closet, a tiny kitchen or galley, a small table with two hard chairs, a bathroom. The water supply worked, once it coughed the rust out of the way, and although the bed sent up a storm of dust when Rayman smacked it, it didn't look too badly dilapidated otherwise.

"Home sweet home," he said, shrugging. "It's far enough away from the other place. Not likely they'd find us here. Let's get our stuff in and clean up a little."

Elly sighed. "All right, Rayman."

As they brought the bags into the new room, Rayman stuck the key to the old cabin into the outside lock of the door.

"That one won't work here," Elly told him.

"That's what I was hoping," he said. "But it looks like the room's empty, doesn't it? With the key left in the door like the other empty rooms."

Elly looked at the door with one of her rare smiles. "That's a good idea," she said.

"Not exactly brilliant, and not foolproof, but every little bit helps."

Except for their brief naps in the storage room, Elly and Rayman had been going for more than a full day and night without rest or much food. They brushed the worst of the dust off the galley counter, the table, and the chairs, and since they had fortunately found warmer, somewhat cleaner blankets in the storage room to replace the threadbare ones in the old cabin, they used the bed's filthy cover to sweep up the dust still swirling around on the floor. They took the mattress off the bed and beat most of the remaining dust out of it, with the result of exchanging a very dusty mattress for a completely choking atmosphere; they put it back on the bed with its cleaner side up, and flopped onto it without even bothering to replace the blankets.

"Are you hungry?" Rayman whispered, after a minute.

Elly's mumble was barely articulate. "No... too tired."

He yawned. "Good."

They both coughed, without waking.

* * *

And it seemed only a moment later that they both sprang off the bed and stared at each other. It was still dark, the automatic day lights hadn't yet come up. Rayman palmed on a small light, put a warning finger to his lips as Elly's mouth opened.

There was another distant crash somewhere outside the room.

Rayman put up a hand to tell her not to move. Silently he advanced towards the locked door. He went into position beside it, his body in a slight crouch, his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched, waiting tensely, motionless.

Elly winced at another crash. Without a sound, she sidled over to the booty sacks and poked carefully around in them. She pulled out Rayman's dagger and crept over to him, holding it out. He turned towards her.

Her body froze. The eyes were cold liquid metal, weirdly catching and amplifying the dim light, luminous, hard, burning like ice. The body and those solid fists seemed to glow, to radiate with an intensity that went through her like x-rays. She made a small sound.

Instantly, he was himself again. Glancing at the knife, he gave her a tiny smile and shook his head.

She retreated backwards to the bed, not taking her eyes off him, clutching the dagger, breathing fast.

The scuffling and banging in the corridor was moving, getting now louder, now softer. They could hear several voices, both human and robotic, shouting, grumbling, arguing.

"Blast it! He could be anywhere by now. Doing anything! Dammit, I wanted to get him right after they dumped him there, days ago, while he was still – But, no, the Boss was keeping an eye out! Wants to keep his precious little laser-cannon pet! How in the _hell_ he could have thought of letting that maniac out of the -"

"I still don't get what you _want_ with that pathetic little freak."

"Pathetic little freak? Didn't you hear what he did to Zobu – I'm talking about _Zobu!_ – and his team, down on that crazy planet? And that was before those loony fairy things joined in! I've never been so happy to get out of anywhere as I was when we left that madhouse."

"I heard some wild stories. Bunch of lies."

"Lies, yeah – not half as wild as what really happened. Have you noticed we have half the robots we used to? Where we going to get more? But what do you care, _human -_"

"C'mon, Blargh, don't start that. Look, we're not going to find him here. Can't we go? There's still time to get drunk before morning."

"No, damn it! —Wouldn't let me post guards by the door. Not even around the old wing! None! Wants to make a _bet!_ He's gone _nuts,_ I'm telling you, he's lost it completely! Ah, hell and fried potatoes, Laser-boy's got to be _somewhere."_

"Probably holed up in the slave quarters. The girl -"

"Yeah, maybe, maybe... Fortaz, try that one." Something, likely a huge metallic foot or fist, slammed against a nearby door. The thick wood audibly splintered.

Rayman's body tensed harder. His teeth silently bared. His eyes went completely black.

Elly stared at him paralyzed, from where she huddled beside the bed.

"Naah!" came a third voice, through the ventilation duct, startlingly loud as if right in the room with them. "Nobody in here."

"Idiot! Stop wrecking the doors! I'm not gonna pay for them!"

"You just wrecked one yourself!"

"Use the damn keys!"

The clomping feet, the crashing and vibrating against walls and doors, were very close. Down the hall, more voices could be heard. The robotic voice of Blargh bellowed, loud enough to vibrate the door of their own cabin. "I said _every_ door! Every door! I saw that, Dorion, you skipped some back there!"

A distant yell, unintelligible. And as Elly watched, the figure by the door clenched its fists tighter, pulled them a little closer to its body, took a deep breath, then seemed not to breathe at all. A small figure, crouching low... but huge, crowding her hard up against the wall, and the air was filled with a desperate savagery, a ferocity that made her clamp her hands over her face.

And at that point, the room lights came up.

"Blargh! It's morning! We got to report in!" The human voice sounded disloyally smug.

A pause. "Yeah... crap. Okay, let's go."

One last crash, against a door on the other side of the hall; and the grumbling and tromping and complaining started back the way they had come, though quite hastily now, and faded quickly around the bends in the corridor.

It was only after every sound had faded, and after several more minutes of silence, while he listened very closely, ear pressed against the door, that Rayman's hunched body relaxed. He straightened up. For a moment there was still a trace of that preternatural intensity in his eyes; then he shook his head lightly and it was gone. He flexed his hands. He looked over at Elly.

"Well," he said, with a light grin. "It must be you, because that certainly wasn't _my_ luck." Elly was silent. He cocked his head a little, eyeing her, and smiled wryly, seeing the wide eyes, the still-crouched posture, the sheathed dagger still unconsciously gripped in her hand.

"Elly. Are you okay?"

She couldn't answer, couldn't turn her eyes away. His smile drooped a little.

"You look like a mouse looking at a cat... It's me, isn't it. Worse than the pirates, eh?"

She tried to look away from him, but she was still frozen by those metallic eyes that weren't there any more. There were only his, Rayman's, gentle, slightly pained.

He began to walk towards her, then paused. He sat down at the table. He looked at his hands, now just hands again. Where had the rocklike fists, the glowing body, the _hugeness_ gone? Or had it been only some kind of illusion? But there had been nothing illusory about the intensity of power that she had felt radiating from him.

He said, quietly, "Elly... you know, you don't need to be afraid of me. You really don't." He glanced at her but looked away again. "I hate... oh, god, I can't tell you how much I hate it when people... get frightened for no reason."

And he looked so forlorn, now, in his silly greyish shirt and torn white gloves and improvised shoes, with his tousled, dusty hair and that small absurd body, that Elly managed to move again. She put down the knife and crept up beside his chair. She crouched on the floor, looking up without a word until he turned his head. His mouth quirked.

"And thanks for offering to help," he said, lightly. "That was good thinking, you know, about the dagger."

She sighed. She got up and sat in the other chair. "But Rayman... why didn't you want it? You said you needed weapons."

He was looking at his hands again, contemplatively. "I don't know... I... It seemed so unnatural. It still does. I guess it's something I'm going to have to... to learn. But I felt right then that the dagger wouldn't have helped." He smiled at her, though his eyes were sombre. "But you did very well, all the same, it was the right thing to do."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Rayman took a deep breath. He looked at her and grinned brightly. "Well!" he said. "Think it's time to eat yet?"

Elly returned his smile, a shy distant echo of it. _"Will_ you eat this time if I give you something?"

There was a distinct touch of relief behind the cheerfulness. "I'm starving."

* * *

They had been sitting at the table for some time, silently eyeing the remains of their small meal of leftovers, brought along in the bag, when Rayman finally spoke up.

"Are you okay, Elly? You've been awfully quiet. Not that you're such a chatterbox anyway, but – you are all right, aren't you?"

She lowered her eyes. "They came after you... And that was Blargh. Maybe the Boss has started thinking about you again."

"Well, I've been thinking of him, too." He smiled encouragingly. "Thanks to all your hard work, I'll be able to go... go deal with him."

She looked up at him, shyly. "Can you try on the clothes now? You haven't put on the whole set together... I think you're going to look very good."

He lurched out of his chair and began to pace, darting around the room, absently picking up random objects and putting them back, picking them up again, wandering around with them and then setting them someplace else. At last he halted; abruptly twisted to face her. "Elly. You know any games?"

_"Games?"_

"Anything, I don't care how dumb. Charades? Cards? Throwing dice? Tic-tac-toe? Chess? I know – tossing pennies into a hat! Got any pennies?"

She didn't have any pennies, and she watched with an increasingly worried look as he dived into his bag of loot and dug out a double handful of small bright glassy stones he had picked up for no discernible reason. He found an ornate, tarnished metal water goblet in the galley and displayed it triumphantly.

"This is too small really – going to be a challenge! Okay, Elly, now we put the cup here by the wall, see, and you sit right here – clear away these chairs, give ourselves some room – I'll keep score –"

"But – Rayman – why are you doing this?"

He looked at her dumfounded. "'Why'?"

"What's the point?"

Abruptly he stopped his quick, excited movements; a compassionate smile came across his face, and he took hold of her hands. Gently he pulled her out of her chair, sat her down on the floor some feet away from the cup, and crouched beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. He whispered to her, confidentially.

"Elly, serious Elly... Learn to play."

It took a while, it took quite a lot of coaching and prodding on his part. He practically had to physically force her to try to toss a stone into the cup, and when she missed she fell flat on the floor in abject apology. She couldn't make any sense of the suppressed laughter in his eyes. He showed her how to do it, made her try again, and kept her trying until at last she got one in. That brightened her a little, although she couldn't imagine why it mattered. He gripped both her shoulders for a moment, grinning. "Good going!" And after a while they were taking alternate shots, even keeping score, and at the end of an hour or so of increasingly noisy activity, she actually found herself feeling a surge of real emotion, a fierce sensation she'd never experienced, of _wanting to win_... he was only ahead by one, she only needed one more! And when she got it, she laughed out loud, elated, her gold-brown eyes shining.

And before she could realize what she was doing and clamp down on herself, he had grabbed her with both hands and quickly given her a big strong hug.

He looked into her face, laughing. "Embarrassed? Again? Watch out, Elly, I think you're hiding a real cutthroat competitor under all that phony shyness!"

After which, of course, she couldn't do it any more. But he beamed at her, patted her shoulder. Methodically he picked up the game pieces, put everything away, returned the chairs to their proper positions, and sat her back down in one.

She was still shaken. Had that been her own voice she'd heard laughing? (Laughter so often prefigured death.) She kept hearing it again, some deeply startling alien thing trying to explode out of her... Where had that come from? What dangerous madness lurked in her that could betray her, put her at risk, break loose in that way?

But when she looked at Rayman, as he sat contemplating her with a relaxed, affectionate, rather ironic amused look, it seemed as though perhaps the danger wasn't quite as bad as it should be, as it always had been... Perhaps ... perhaps it wasn't _always _so very dangerous, to show an emotion.

* * *

The fit of agitated wakefulness that had seized them both at the approach of the pirates abandoned them both almost simultaneously. Elly, slumping in her chair, could not keep track of where her head was; she kept starting awake to find it in odd places. At last, when Rayman, sitting across the table in the other chair, abruptly tapped the table between them, she forced her eyes open to discover her head was on her arm, her arm outstretched on the table. Her eyes flatly refused to focus.

"Elly, I'm sorry," Rayman said. "I got to thinking... Let's get some sleep."

Utterly exhausted, Elly slapped herself down on the bed and huddled into a blanket. It was odd to be going to sleep in the morning, but she had never been so tired. She took a deep breath. Then she turned her head; Rayman had not lain down, he was still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. Although she didn't say anything, after a moment he turned to look at her looking at him. His eyes were oddly sombre; disconcerting after the pleasant time they had been having.

Then he smiled, though his eyes didn't change. "Elly," he said, softly. "Elly. Would it be all right if I – Could you give us a hug? Would you mind very much?"

Still groggy, she felt a slight shiver: The startlement of the brief squeeze he had given her earlier; the abruptly revived picture of those mercury-coloured backlit eyes by the door, waiting for the pirates; and a crowd of how many old, shuddering moments of somebody being too close, too close.

She could see in his face that he was about to change his mind, withdraw his request, turn away. "I don't mind," she said.

As she unwound herself from the blanket, he walked around to her side of the bed, stood in front of her. She couldn't quite fathom the look in his face; was it sorrowful? Pleased? Wistful. She stood up, hesitated; he, a little hesitant too, leaned forward and put his big hands lightly around her. Their bodies didn't touch, but he pressed his smooth cheek against hers. After a moment, she wrapped her hands around his back. And they held still. There was a small sensation of a tightness in her throat, a little pressure... She closed her eyes. She could hear his slow breathing, feel it, feel the warmth of those big enveloping hands around her. And slowly, the old instinctive resistance faded. The hard tightness, the hand gripping her throat, was fading too; and the blur of her exhaustion was melding into a sense of – of stillness – like some ancient memory, of lying quietly on the shore by small lapping waves, while the sun burned overhead, so far away... burning so cruelly hot, yet the tips of its long fingers caressed her, gently, lulling her to sleep... with a sense of utter restfulness and peace. There was no such thing as fear in the world, there never had been.

There was sorrow, somewhere. But it only made her hold on harder. She couldn't reach it, she couldn't touch it, but she yearned to take hold of it, still it... to – to comfort it. A new thought for her. To touch it with that peacefulness, as the sun touched her.

She staggered a little; with a start, she half-woke. The big hands gripped her for a moment, so she wouldn't fall. She heard his soft chuckle. He gave her a small squeeze and let go, stepped back. His eyes met hers just for an instant; his face was smiling, but the eyes were – he pulled them away quickly.

'Thank you," he said, his voice low, a little hoarse. "Thanks." The dark eyes glanced at her again, briefly, almost shyly, and he turned away. He walked back around to his side of the bed and lay down, pulling his blanket around himself. He was facing away from her, but she saw his chest move with a deep sigh.

She too wrapped herself in her blanket. Though for the moment now she was wide awake.

There was silence for a few breaths. Then, softly, distantly, as though disembodied, came a quiet voice.

"Elly... are you asleep?"

"No."

A pause. She felt that tightness in her throat again, the hand gripping it, near suffocation. She couldn't see his face. He said, very low, "Elly... It's been nice, you know? You've helped me so much. I won't forget."

For a moment she half sat up, turning towards him. His face was still hidden. "What? Are you going someplace?"

He said, "I–I'm afraid to wake up... from this slow-motion nightmare... I've never been so... I guess it's fear, I guess that's what to call it, I hardly know. I feel so strange, Elly, so paralyzed, so – numb."

"Are you still sick, Rayman? You seemed so much better."

He chuckled softly, turning onto his back, glancing at her. "Not sick. I'm fine. Couldn't be better. Except to be... Oh, maybe that brat I was, back home, back in the village where I grew up. Elly, if you knew – the trouble I used to get into! I was the wild kid, you know, the one the other kids did stupid things to impress! The first one people thought of, if anything – blew up, or was found smashed, or ... mysteriously moved overnight, like that water mill... But it worked _better_ where we put it!" He chuckled again, but Elly, lying back down again, could feel the tightness in her throat growing, and his voice was very quiet when he spoke. "I never meant to be destructive. Maybe a bit, uh, experimental... But people would get so furious with me, and I never quite saw why. I didn't recognize myself in what they said, they seemed to be talking about someone else..." His voice trailed away. After a few moments, Elly spoke, a little anxiously.

"Rayman?"

"And now... maybe it's the biggest blunder of all. Certainly the biggest... most unpredictable... experiment." He was silent again, for such a long time that despite the touch of worry prodding at her, she began to sink back towards sleep.

Then that soft voice again, very low, hoarse. "Did he do the right thing? All I know is that he tried. He tried. He was desperate. But I... I'm ... I'm frightened, Elly. I'm the one who's going to live with the aftermath of what he did in his desperation. To save his people..." He sighed quietly. "To save his people... what did he condemn _me_ to? Though that doesn't matter, does it. His people were saved. And he... he's well out of it. He couldn't face... he couldn't face what... what he would..." He turned over, pulled the blanket over him.

"...Rayman? What –"

A sigh from under the blanket. "What he would become. The coward. The weasel. He abandoned me here alone."

Elly said, "Who? What are you talking about? But, you know – I'm here. Didn't you say that yourself? You're not – you're not alone."

A small sound, unclear. "Elly... thank you. ... Only... well, never mind. Thank you."

Another quiet sigh. A pause. Then, his voice again; but completely changed – though still soft, it was suddenly warm, bright, with little sparks of humour; and half-dreaming.

"It was a such beautiful planet, Elly. When you talked about yours, where you came from, it took me right back to mine, to ... my home. The forest. The rivers, the sea. The village. The kind, gentle people... And, years ago, wandering away from them all, restless at night, all those restless nights, wanting something more and not knowing what it was...

"Think of it... Waking up out in the middle of nowhere, deep in the ancient forest, after spending a night in a pile of old fallen leaves, twigs, bugs... waking to the soft moist light, the bright scents, the intricate sounds of a green-tinted dawn feeling its delicate way in through the canopy... Oh, Elly, the softness, the freshness, the beauty. The way it would take hold of you and grip your body until you didn't know whether to laugh or cry; and as you stood up and shook off the night you felt yourself expand, to become suddenly tremendous, as big as the world, oh, enveloping it, growing one with it, containing it and contained within it. Touching every living thing that walked or crawled or swam, that played or fought or fled... So many faces, voices, all alive, all so sparkling with life, so much magic. Maybe it was only imagination. But..."

He sighed. "They all, every one of them, had a tendril inside of me. When they were all yanked out at once, what did it do to me? I belonged to them, Elly. You understand? I belonged to them. I was responsible for them."

He laughed suddenly, not a happy laugh. "The worst of all... You want to know what the worst thing is? It's that I can't bear to think of it any more. I can't endure the thought of... where _he_ came from. That guy. That one who died and left me... left me this future. What an inheritance." He sighed again, more lightly, a little bent smile on his face. "Still. In the end, I can't blame him. And what use is blame anyway. It's a killer, it kills. And I – I'm condemned to live."

Elly was half sitting up again, looking intently at him now as he lay on his back, his eyes closed. For a few moments, she couldn't quite get the words out. "Rayman... Was it really? Was your home really like mine?"

He turned his face towards her, brightening again. This time even the eyes smiled. "Yes, Elly, I think it was. We're alike that way. Don't you think so?"

She collapsed onto her back, her pale eyes sinking shut, a tidal wave of sleep crashing over her; but there was a little smile irrepressible on her face. "I'm so glad. I'm ... so..." Her breath exhaled in a mumble.

He yawned, stretched, wrapped the blanket tighter against the chilly air. "Elly. Did I ever remember to say ... I was fond of you? Anyway. Get some sleep."

"... G'nigh."

Another silence. Then, with a small groan, Rayman got up to turn out the light.

* * *

She awoke once. It was dark. There wasn't a sound in the room, except his slow breathing as he slept, and the familiar, comforting, deep vibration of the ship itself. Curling up near the edge of the bed, Elly took in a long breath. It was so strange... but the word, the feeling, kept crowding her, prodding at her, it had nagged through all her dreams until she had finally had to wake up and take a look at it. That was what it was... she was happy. That's what he'd said, Rayman had said... he'd laughed at her, with those kind eyes... his real eyes... and at last, at last she was convinced. She was happy. This was what happiness was; to lie here, luxuriantly tired, completely peaceful, surrounded by that subtle sense of well-being that always seemed to pervade the place where he was.

She had done so many things in the last day, so many new things, and later there would be many more, and she was happy... The Boss was after him, yes, but she felt such confidence in Rayman that right now even that didn't worry her. It would all be all right... For the first time that she could remember, it really felt as though ... she felt as though it would be safe to relax, let down her guard... be happy. Just be happy. There would be a future. For the first time in her life she was sure of it. It was even safe to go back to sleep... Even the thick black waters of sleep, as they dragged her down, didn't frighten her. That strong sun was still burning way high up, it could see clear through the darkness, clear to the bottom of the ocean.

* * *

His eyes opened. The room was cold, and nearly black. Only a wan greenish glowstrip on the floor near the bathroom door gave any shape to the darkness. He closed his eyes again; then sighed. He sat up.

As he got to his feet, he glanced at the shadowy form on the other side of the bed, and smiled a little.

Then he turned away. He groped over to the table, and sat down, crouching feet and all in the seat of a chair. He wrapped his hands around his chest and sides for warmth.

Motionless, he sat there in the dark, his head down, his eyes lowered. Looking at nothing.

[End of chapter 5]


	7. Piranha

_A/N: All right, I know what you're going to say. My apologies for this chapter. But what can I do? If Rayman's going to insist on acting this way, I just have to go along with it._

_The story does take a sharp turn here, but just realize it's a long way from finished yet. From what I can figure right now, there are another 15 to 18 chapters to come, groan... There will be more changes. On the bright side, at least we're finally getting out of that blasted room!_

_I'm sorry, anyway! *Sigh.*_

_Once again, as we all know, Rayman belongs to UbiSoft Entertainment. Everything else, including all the blame, belongs to Rayfan._

_

* * *

  
_

**Chapter 6: Piranha**

She was standing on the side of a hill, high up, looking down into a valley that was all in darkness. (To be on a planet, under a sky, standing on grass and earth, was so eerie, so dreamlike, it couldn't be real... It couldn't be real, but here she was. She stared, fascinated.) There were distant hills, gentle mounds, far away at the horizon, a yellow-orange glow dimming behind them; they faded into silhouette and then melted into the blackness that crept up from the valley. The sun was setting.

Elly sat up suddenly. The room was grey and unfamiliar, and for an instant she was seized with fear. Then she remembered. A small smile took possession of her face.

It grew, she had to hide it behind her hands. Smiling was too dangerous. But it wouldn't go away. Elly sighed, happily.

She looked around. "Rayman?" He wasn't on the bed, she couldn't see him anywhere. She got up, looked in the bathroom, gazed around the room in perplexity.

Then she heard a scraping noise off to her left – in the wall. She approached it cautiously. No rat ever sounded that big!

The ventilation duct grating up near the ceiling was hanging open. Another scrabbling noise, and Rayman's dishevelled head poked out.

"Hi," he said.

Carefully, one piece at a time, he eased out of the duct. It was narrow and there wasn't much to hold onto. Climbing onto a chair left below the grate, Elly helped keep him from sliding out and landing on his head.

"Going to have to practice that," he grinned, brushing himself off. "It's a pretty tight fit, hard to turn around."

She smiled too. "Did you find what you wanted?"

He glanced at her, a brief warm contact, then back up at the grate. "We can get through there, it's not too bad. We can go from room to room. Have to be careful about making noise. I didn't see anyone in any of the cabins around here."

"I don't think there is anybody, but they wouldn't be there anyhow during the – what time is it?" Elly looked around. "It's still day, isn't it? Sleeping in the daytime–I'm all confused."

"It's still day. The lights are still on in the halls and other rooms. And according to my stomach, I'd say it's around suppertime."

She did feel a twitch of hunger, in fact a pretty big twitch. They had not eaten much in the last day or so. "There's almost nothing left. I need to get more food."

They looked at each other. She could see the same thought in his eyes that she was having – the pirates. She hadn't had any problem going out to get food before, but now that they had changed cabins, and there was a search on for Rayman, that was a different matter.

"I can wait," Rayman said. But he looked at her with some concern.

She shrugged. "So can I. I'm not so hungry."

Seeing his skeptical expression, she added, "I've gone days without food before, lots of times. I'm used to it." Then, brightening, she said, "Wouldn't this be a good time to try on the new clothes?"

He stood quiet for a moment, his eyes averted. Then he said abruptly, "I'm filthy, what with the dust and those ducts. I'm going to take a shower." He walked past her to the bathroom. At the door, he paused. He half-turned.

"Elly," he said. His eyes contacted her for a moment, a deeply serious look. For a moment he seemed about to speak. Then he lowered his gaze and turned away to open the door.

He stopped again, turning back momentarily with a very different, weary expression. "Elly, this ship has to be crawling with guns. Think. How can I get one? A usable one, not like that relic from the storage room. And soon?" He stepped though the door, it closed behind him.

Elly sat down at the table. A gun. Of course he needed a gun, any pirate in trouble would try to get a gun. She could hear the water running now. Her thoughts began to drift. Food... food would be nice. But with the stoicism of long habit, she moved on from there. The clothes... She got up, went to the booty bags and dug around in them, pulling out the various pieces of clothing she and Rayman had worked on. She smoothed out some wrinkles, refolded them, laid them neatly on the table. The boots and gloves too... She smiled. It was – fun – kind of a – _game_ – imagining how he'd look... Her hand stroked the material.

She dug around more in the bags. His two knives, at least he had those. She laid them out too. She found a few cups and utensils, put them away in the galley. There were a few scraps of hard bread left. She found a plate, put them on it, laid that on the table as well. She got two cups, filled a jug with water, got the nearly-empty wine bottle... She was smiling again, a shy little smile, but it stayed on her face as though it belonged there.

A gun, of course, where could he get a gun?... Her eyes wandered again to the folded clothing.

The water had stopped running, and soon he came through the door, tying the belt of his grey shirt, his springy hair still damp, muttering, "Ugh, I need clean... clothes." His voice trailing off. He halted, staring at the table, then at her.

She smiled more. He attempted a smile, but it wasn't very robust, and after a moment it gave up and slunk away.

He said, "I see you found some–something to eat, after all." Though from the way he was standing, he seemed to want to back up through the door into the bathroom again.

Elly walked over to him, took hold of his hand. He looked at her, surprised. He didn't move. "It's not much, but come eat," she coaxed him.

His glance darted away, lit on her again, fluttered off in disordered confusion like a pack of startled butterflies. He let her pull him towards the table, though she could feel resistance; it increased as they came closer. She got him into a chair and put the plate in front of him. Standing beside his chair, she poured some wine into his cup, added water.

He looked pale, distracted. "Couldn't I just have plain water?"

"Plain water? Oh, no, that's dangerous! Nobody drinks plain water!"

He sighed. "Well, can it at least be _mostly_ water? Wine makes me thirsty."

She picked up the jug, added water to his cup. He looked at her. Her light, golden eyes were bright, shining with a soft light. Though she wasn't quite smiling now, the usual solemnity of her face had gentled; she gazed at him radiantly.

He lowered his eyes, turned away.

She put the other chair at the corner next to him, instead of across the table, and sat down. Her eyes caressed him, shyly. "I'm sorry there isn't anything better. Tonight I can go get more food, when there aren't a lot of pirates around. But for now–" She pushed the plate at him.

He picked up a small piece, then pushed the plate over to her. "Your turn, Elly." He didn't look at her.

As they chewed slowly on the dry bread, Rayman said, "Um... Elly... did you think of..."

"The gun?" she cut in, guiltily. "Uh–tonight I could–"

With a kind of absent-minded distaste he stared at the remains of the bread in his hand. "Do you think any of the rooms around here might have something like that in them, maybe forgotten by somebody? There wasn't any gun in here, but I did find all kinds of old junk in the drawers and cupboards when I was poking around."

"I guess it's possible."

He got up to pace. "We have to start looking."

She felt a little nervous thrill run through her. "Is it that important? Can't it wait till tonight?"

He stopped, closed his eyes; stood for a moment rocking a little on his feet, hands clasped behind him, then turned swiftly, paced off in another direction.

Involuntarily, looking at the unconscious, compact grace of his movements, Elly burst out, "Oh, Rayman, I'd like so much to see you in these new clothes!"

He stopped, abruptly aiming his gaze at her with such force that she drew back a little. There was a wry, almost bitter smile on his face. "You would? Why?"

"I – I don't know, they'd look so nice... I think they're so lovely!"

"Do you? I think they're basically a practical joke."

"What do you mean, a joke? How can they be funny? I've never seen such beautiful–"

"Oh, Elly," he said – and there was for once a distinct edge of impatience in his voice, "Beautiful! What can that word mean in this place? What's beauty mean in a world where the only thing anyone cares about is _force?_ Pain, death, terror – sure, those are real! But _beauty?_ It's a joke, a mockery! Though it fits... it fits the practical joke of me ending up here at all. Yeah, another little layer to the joke."

He swerved, took a few steps, halted. His dark eyes fastened on her again. "Elly. Please just drop that idea, okay? The _whole_ idea. There's nothing beautiful... or even – pleasant... likely to occur around here. Nothing, you get me?"

She sat silent for a few minutes, while he set off again stalking erratically around the room, halting, turning, setting off determinedly in one direction, then reversing with equal though empty determination to stride back the way he'd come; once or twice even hopping onto the seat of a chair and momentarily crouching there, looking half-comical, half-hunted. Or taking an effortless jump onto the galley countertop, stretching himself a third longer to peer up into the highest cupboard, not that he seemed aware of what he was looking at. Her eyes followed him around. At last she said, in a subdued voice, "You mean... Do you mean you aren't going to wear those clothes after all?"

He halted again, frozen as though shot. "I don't mean that. No... I'm going to wear them, Elly." He set off again.

Even more subdued, she murmured, "When?"

Once again he halted. Slowly he turned to face her.

A cold thrill jolted her body. Those were the submerged, suffocating, anguished eyes she'd seen the first time he ever looked at her.

"All right, then," he said. "All right. It has to be done." His head turned towards the table, where the neatly folded clothing lay. He swallowed. "Elly. Why don't you go over to the bed, sit over there."

Hesitantly, she got out of her chair, went over to sit on the bed, as he walked slowly to the table and stood beside the little pile of clothes.

He laid a hand on the new shirt, hesitated; he looked at her once more. Something in his eyes, the way they held her for an instant – like being seized around the neck by a drowning man – something that clutched at her with desperation and then slipped, spun free, was lost, gone. The effect was so dizzying that involuntarily she rose to her feet, about to run to him, grab him, drag him back.

But his eyes pulled away, closed briefly. When they opened, they were steady. And there was that hardness in them that she had seen before, a resolute rejection of despair. Of all emotion?

Silently he turned his back on her. He pulled off his grey shirt, leaving on the black undergarment that covered his whole torso. He began to pull the new shirt up over it.

Elly sank back onto the bed, leaned against the headboard. The silence and solemnity of his movements, that hard, distant look that had come into his eyes – more and more, she didn't want to watch the process of his, his changing. But by deliberately putting on the clothes in her presence, he seemed to demand that she be a witness. A chill ran through her.

All her anticipation of seeing him in the new outfit had evaporated. Now she longed for the courage to tell him to stop, put back on the old shirt, turn his face towards her, don't turn his back on her, don't change...

Methodically, undramatically, piece by piece he put on the elaborate outfit; the shirt or bodysuit, the short black leather vest, the loose, armless coat, the shiny leather boots, the cuffed black gloves. He stood there, still with his back to her, his yellow hair very vivid in contrast to the dark clothing, his head lowered. His body bent forward stiffly. For a moment she thought she saw something incomprehensible – as though an invisible hand had visibly seized his body, subtly squeezed, fractionally remoulded it. He held still, breathing hard. A coldness that wasn't just temperature settled on the room; it lay heavy in her chest like a disease.

He raised his head, arching his back, stretching himself. He took a slow, deep breath. For no understandable reason, she felt another chill.

Now he turned towards the table, side view to her. An irrelevant, detached, awed thought shot through her: _ Oh, my god, he's so beautiful!_ He took a step, stiffly. He picked up the wide black hat from the table and, with a slight ironic twist to his mouth, gingerly settled it onto his head, concealing most of that bright yellow hair, putting his large eyes into shadow. They burned out as if from the depths of a lightless cave.

Then the head turned in her direction; those eyes moved to take hold of hers. She didn't know why, even before meeting them, she quailed.

Except for its sombre colour, the outfit was so flamboyant it verged on parody, the traditional self-important pirate captain. It enveloped him in heavy, stiff, thick cloth and leather, completely unlike his former lightweight, skintight clothing. It was nearly all in black; the very dark purple, satiny ruffled shirt or bodysuit, together with a little silver trim of the black vest and hat, gave the only hints of colour. The coat, longer than his body length, secured at the neck and with a narrow belt, was ornately brocaded, beautifully textured with patterns in thick black thread that in their darkness were hardly visible, but added to the richness of the effect. The large, elegantly curved hat was decorated with white feathers running along the brim, and floating plumes that rose back alongside the crown like a mockery of the native liveliness and bounce of his own hair. And the black boots, with their low stiff uprights, and the heavy-cuffed black leather gloves, together with the length and looseness of his wide-collared coat, somewhat obscured the absence of his arms, legs and neck.

The clothes looked elaborate, archaic, and extremely dashing. And they looked unexpectedly natural on him.

In the midst of her astonishment and a low, growing thrill of horror, again the thought trembled: _I had no idea he could be so handsome._ But it wasn't her thought, it belonged to someone or something else, it banged around inside her skull almost unregarded. Against her will, in defiance of all her lifelong instincts, in spite of her desperate effort to stop them, tears were burning her. And fear. This was not Rayman. He was utterly changed.

Not by the clothes; not even by what appeared to be, mysteriously, another inch or two of height, quite in addition to the inch added by the boot heels. It was something much more subtle, yet which pervaded everything, transformed his least gesture into something foreign. It was his stance: the slight straightening of his posture, the way his chest moved out a little, his head thrown a little back. Rayman's casual, poised, alert attitude, the lightness, the airiness of the way he stood – always as if ready to leap up into the air where he half seemed to belong – had become something defiantly firm, solid, weighted to the ground.

And the startling shift in the way that body moved; from his former easy, smooth quickness, changing as lightly as his mind, to heavily controlled, sudden, nearly machine-like starts and stops. Each motion of his body was so abrupt, so deliberate, and so apparently packed with intention, that even a change in direction of his eyes, as he fractionally turned his head and fixed them on her, was ... frightening.

And – those dark eyes. They were gone, Rayman's eyes, radiating a bright clear warmth like a sun. They were gone. These eyes were no less intense; but with a cold, concentrated, altered light, like a piercing glint reflected off a sharp blade. Even their colour seemed to have shifted from cobalt blue to outright black.

It was as though in stepping into those clothes Rayman had simply ceased to exist; as though he had walked through a magic portal and been seamlessly replaced by this disturbing stranger. Who now looked at her silently through opaque, impenetrable eyes.

"Oh, Rayman," she whispered. "I hardly know you."

"That's right," he said gravely.

Her mind was quite paralyzed, but her mouth was reflexively babbling. "It's that–I don't think _he's_ going to like it – he doesn't like anyone to show him up, Rayman, he's funny that way, about clothes, and you–"

He raised a black-gloved hand, palm out, in a gesture to stop her. "Don't call me that," he said quietly. "My name is Piranha."

Those steady, unblinking eyes were holding hers, and she didn't dare try to pull away. But she couldn't let that stranger see in her gaze the dagger he had just shoved into her chest.

Why had he done this to her? What had she done to make him do this to her? How had she failed? Then she saw.

"Oh, no – it's Anaconda – You're _Anaconda's man!"_ she cried. Her hands covered her face.

Involuntarily, one of his hands moved a little towards her. Then sank back to his side. He looked at her grimly.

"Elly," he said, neutrally.

Quivering with repressed tears, she looked up at him. Already the animation of the last couple of days was quite gone from her face; and the unshed tears were quickly retreating too.

He stood silent, his eyes on her. Rayman's eyes had always been transparent, a clear window into his every passing thought. These eyes were – as if shutters had been slammed over the windows. Anything occurring behind them was barricaded from view. Imprisoned.

"Elly," he said again. In that quiet voice that sent a pang through her body every time he spoke; that lower, slightly harsher tone that was the most alien thing of all. A voice no less expressive than Rayman's, and with no hint of anger or threat – but also, with no trace of that warmth that had always embraced her every time he spoke, that had always seemed able to embrace everything.

He had murdered her Rayman, this alien being with the opaque eyes, he had murdered him in the vicious act of putting on those hell-black clothes, he was murdering him again with each cold, soft-spoken word... What was he saying?

"Listen to me, Elly," he was saying. "The game is going on, and I haven't been playing. If I don't make a move soon, I'll be outmaneuvered, I'll be out of it altogether. I can't let that happen. If I'm killed, everything I've – gone through will have been for nothing."

He shook his head, with a slight, acid smile. "In the past, I've been called a good guy by some. Well, I don't know about being so wonderfully good. What I am – is a guy who seriously does not like to lose. I don't like to lose. And I don't intend to lose now." His voice became lower, harsher. "Not that there's any way to _win_ this game. But I have to stay in it. I have to do whatever in hell it takes, to stay alive and – keep the boss happy. That's how it is."

That bitter smile, like a thin knife. "It was kind of interesting to find out from you that when I fought the robot pirates back on my planet, I wasn't just smashing machinery, I was slaughtering living beings. But it wouldn't have made any difference if I'd known, would it? I still would have done the same thing, wouldn't I? I did what I had to do. I always have."

He paused a moment, then added, "Anyhow. In some sense I did know. They didn't act like machines, they had to be alive. Only I didn't want to think about it. And that wasn't the only war I've fought. There are a _lot_ of things I haven't wanted to think about in my life. And so where do I end up? Another of life's little practical jokes... Smacking me face-first into everything I never wanted to look at, about myself.

"Yes. I can't help wondering if I've landed exactly where I belong. As if in my own tailor-made hell. If it weren't for all the innocents suffering here too, I'd be almost egotistical enough... dumfounded enough to believe it. All right. Enough of that."

He had become abstracted; now a new surge of energy seemed to hit him, he turned towards her fiercely. "Elly, I mean to survive. This is a very dangerous time right now. I need your help more than ever."

He took a step forward. Again she was aware of his body moving with a firmness, a determined solidity, that was the direct opposite of Rayman's thoughtless, near-weightless grace. Yet it had a deliberate, feral elegance of its own. Those penetrating, fiercely intelligent eyes, under that elaborate hat that would have looked ridiculous on Rayman, the too-handsome clothes, the small hard smile that seemed to conceal, rather than express, a thousand lifetimes of bitter experience – no, she had never seen him so coherent, so controlled, so exotic, so fascinating.

And she wanted nothing more than to flee the room, to fly down the twisting corridors and halls and all the way across the ship to the lowest depths of the slave quarters, to bury herself in that friendly squalor and never have to return.

Perhaps sensing her reaction, his lips pulled back a little in a painful grin.

"Things might not be the same for you on the ship now, Elly. You're in this with me. That's how it is. I know you're good at recognizing necessity. As I am. You're with me, and you're going to have to do whatever's necessary to keep the game going. I'm counting on you completely to play your part." He paused.

"That also means," he added, "You're my teammate. I owe you the same loyalty you owe me. Do you see that?"

She couldn't speak at first. "No," she said, finally. "No, I don't. But you're my boss. I'll do what you say."

Once again the remote, opaque little smile. "All right. We'll start with that."

He turned back to the table, picked up the long dagger and the shorter knife, tucking them with their sheaths into slits in the black vest under his jacket. He checked for ease of reaching each knife, adjusted their positions, checked again. Then he glanced at her.

"The pirates are going to keep trying to find me," he said. "I think they've been patrolling around in the corridors more, have you heard them? Be very careful when you go out of here, you mustn't be seen in this area." He took a long breath. "There's going to be a lot of fighting to do over the next days, maybe weeks. I have to gain a position, and it's not going to be easy.

"I've got to have a gun, Elly. More than one. And we have to have more weapons, to defend the cabin if it comes to that. You need to check every room around here to see if you can find any. Then later tonight you can go find some food... and get into the weapon storage rooms. Right?"

He took off the hat and the coat. He laid them back on the table. His eyes turned towards her again.

"You'll need to finish more clothes, too," he said. "These probably won't last long. And I can't dress in rags like those – amateurs."

He paused, looking at her as she stood, not moving, eyes lowered, her body a little bent.

"You can stop looking like a human sacrifice," he added, dryly. "Do _I_ go around acting like one? All right, you know what to do."

With that, he turned his back on her, went over to jump onto the chair still standing below the circulation vent, pulled himself up into the opening, and slipped away.

Elly stood for a few moments, looking at the vent. She looked at the table where the old shirt lay.

She sat down on the bed for a little while. She was having some trouble breathing.

***

Over the next couple of hours Elly dutifully explored the neighboring cabins, darting out of one door into another when no heavy footsteps had been heard approaching or passing for at least ten minutes. She dug through the drawers, under the beds, into the cupboards, through all the dust and abandoned junk. Very few of the rooms had ever been tidied up when the last inhabitants had departed – how many decades ago.

As the evening grew later, it seemed that the sporadic traffic in the hallways increased, to the point where she was afraid she wouldn't be able to make it back into their cabin unseen. When she finally did slip back in, locking the door behind her with relief, she looked around the room. No sign of – him. She took a deep breath. He would be furious; she hadn't yet found a gun.

She laid a couple of small daggers and a short sword on the table. She sighed. Food... It had been a long time. There were still a few old crusts on the plate, about as edible as cardboard. She wasn't quite that desperate. She took a drink of water. She sat down at the table for a moment, a little dizzy.

Yes, she was hungry. And very tired.

She went back to the booty bags and dug out a partly finished shirt she'd been working on in the storage room. Without enthusiasm, she got together her sewing equipment and the cloth and went over to sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard. It was more comfortable than working at the table.

When he slid back out of the duct some half an hour later (much more neatly than the first time), dropped quietly to the floor, and stood brushing himself off, he saw her. She'd fallen asleep on the bed, mid-stitch. He glanced over at the dry bread on the table, at the sword and knives.

He got a drink of water. He hefted the sword, shaking his head.

***

He sat in the half-lit room while she slept, running his hands over his new identity, as though only now trying to find out what it was. Flexing his fists, insulated in their thick gloves, and learning the sensations from fingers muffled by leather sheathing. Running his hands over his own slight, lithe body, buried under layers of strong cloth and leather. Touching his own face; even that was changed, it felt different to him, numb, lifeless, shapeless. The set of the mouth and vision from the eyes, it was all new, unfamiliar, not very comfortable. He put his big hands around his chest, over the small arsenal under his coat, and squeezed hard, compressing the flat sides of the daggers against his trunk, feeling the location of each individual blade. They hurt.

He sat still for a short time, eyes closed, fists flexing, unflexing, tightening again almost hard enough to tear through the gloves.

He put the big showy hat on and felt where it impeded the reach of his hands, felt how his head turned in it, felt the weight of it rebalancing his whole body.

Getting out of the chair, he began moving quietly and quickly around the room, with abrupt turns, halts, dashes; then, flinging his hat aside, rolls and leaps, landing, twisting and firing... except that he didn't fire. It was hard, imagining the enemy, not to lash out automatically with Rayman's old effortless energy shots. (He refused to confirm, in practice, with finality, that he didn't have shots to fire any more, he refused to try and fail. Either to fail or to succeed at firing would have been unbearable.) He kept on and on, until he had fought down the emotion; until his hands were just hands, until he had forced the envelope of control around him to shrink from the ability to place a pinpoint shot anywhere within sight, to – the size of a small frame, a head, two feet, two hands, a dense little package. Like a solid-body.

It was hard, it was very hard, it took a long time. He had to stop a few times, panting, his fists clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. His body shaking. Then starting up again, without a sound, his teeth bared, his eyes cold and dark as stone.

Later, he would need to expand his area of control again, to convert it to the use of a weapon instead of – instead of himself. He couldn't do it just yet.

At last, when he was under control, when his body had stopped shaking, when the hands had stopped crying out to him, when he finally knew who and what he was – he moved onto the next phase. One by one he pulled out each knife, looked it over carefully, felt its blade, imagined its function; imagined using it. Then he put them all back in their places. Again he began his rapid, erratic movements. His hands snatched at his chest with blurring speed, at his boot, again and again, in mid leap, in mid roll, while twisting towards an opponent, until they knew with utter certainty where each dagger was.

As the moves became larger, covering more distance, he had become inevitably less quiet, and at last, making a sudden leap from the floor onto a chair halfway across the room, he knocked it over with a crash. Elly jumped out of the bed with a shriek. He stood beside the fallen chair, looking at her irritably.

"What–what happened?" she gasped, picking up her sewing from the floor.

"Nothing," he said. "Why don't you go get some food now."

"All-all right," she stuttered. He picked up the chair, stood beside it, a dark, compact figure. A short dagger glinted in his hand, his black eyes were on her. She was almost afraid to take her own eyes off him as she set the sewing on the bedside table. She slunk into the bathroom to splash some water on her face, came out to find he hadn't stirred. Those eyes continued to follow her as she threw a patched old cloak around herself, crept over to the door, unlocked it, and slipped out of the room.

After she was gone, he put the knife back into its place. He began his moves again, at a faster pace this time.

***

She was still not thinking about it. She wasn't thinking about him. She wasn't thinking about who or what he had been or what he was now or how he could have changed so. Her loss had been so abrupt, so unexpected, so unprepared for.

Even though in a way, she could see now, he had warned her. He had tried to tell her. He hadn't been lying. Now he was gone. As if a switch had been flicked.

It was late, past curfew. The few pirates and slaves still in the halls were mostly scurrying towards quarters. The night cook-guard, a human, gave her the usual rations without comment beyond the raising of an eyebrow at her long absence.

On her way back to R– the cabin – _Piranha's_ cabin – she was stopped in the corridor by one of the First Mate's human thugs, a very large featureless slab of meat with a smaller, nearly featureless slab of a face.

_"There _you are! Where's your little freak?" he demanded. She stood still, head lowered, not looking at him. "Laying low in some cozy nest being babied by a girl? Since when do captive enemy slaves get treated better than the crew? Or is it true what they're saying, that he's dead and you're taking it easy, living on his rations?"

She answered in a voice as low and as monotone as possible. "He's in his cabin."

The pirate snorted and spat on the floor just beside her. "His cabin! You tell that armless joke that the Boss wants to see him, _now._ Blargh told Anaconda this morning his half-missing pet's gone missing completely, and he was not pleased. The vacation's over. They'll hunt down the little fake if he doesn't show up. And I don't think he'll find that such a holiday."

He bent forward, grabbed her soft flesh, squeezed hard, but she didn't flinch or make a sound. With another snort of laughter, he let her go.

"I'll tell him," she murmured.

"You'll tell him? No. I better tell him myself. You take me to him right now." His huge hand groped again at the cloak, aiming for her arm underneath.

Elly ducked, took a few quick steps back, staring up at him, as he grinned at her. Then with a faint gasp, clutching her little bag of food, she leapt forward and dodged around him, taking off down the corridor at a flat-out run.

He made a lumbering swipe at her as she passed, then stood there laughing.

"You tell him _I _get you after we're done with _him,"_ he called after her. Elly ran faster.

About to make another lunge, knife in hand, Piranha froze in mid-motion as she slammed into the room – perhaps not sure that it was she. He took in her disarranged clothes and wild eyes.

"He wants you _now,"_ she panted.

He thrust the dagger into its sheath and made a grab for his hat on the table.

"Wait," she said, "Eat something first."

He gave her a slight bitter smile and took the proffered bread, chewing it quickly while he patted down his knives, checked the set of his shirt and hat, adjusted his boots and gloves.

At the door, he stopped and turned to her. "Get me a gun," he said. Though his voice was quite expressionless, it was clear that he was reminding her of how many times he had asked for it already. Her heart stopped.

"I will," she whispered. He gave her a cold, hard glance, and left.

[End of chapter]


	8. Hazing, Part 1

_Too tired to say much about this, I think it speaks for itself. Warning... PG alert, some violence and some mildly bad language in this chapter. Well, these guys are pirates, after all._

_And not to forget: Rayman is © UbiSoft Entertainment, although by this point I doubt they'd recognize him... and everything else in here is © 2002, 2003 to me, Rayfan._

**Chapter Seven: Hazing, Part 1**

The large war room was packed with pirates - the high-level robot officers, some three dozen of them, along with another ten or fifteen of the more senior humans. It was very late now, and they weren't in the best of tempers after a long day's arguing and no breaks. But Anaconda had been in one of his occasional hyperactive moods, overflowing with ideas, striding around the room gesticulating, sweeping his dark red cloak around himself dramatically. So, hours later, here they still were, slumped at the conference table or huddling in dispirited clumps around the room, staring gloomily at maps, listening to the endless rehash of strategies, plans which by now had changed so many times that no one was sure what was supposed to happen any more. All they wanted at this point was to get out of that place, and preferably take the shortest, fastest route to the officer's bar.

So when the door slammed open without warning and a small black figure strode a step or two into the room, every head turned towards it eagerly. With anticipation of at least a messenger slave bringing some kind of diversion, or with equally hopeful anticipation of something stupid to get irritable about. But now that the diversion had finally arrived, they found themselves completely at a loss for a reaction.

After a moment of shocked unrecognition, they saw who he was. They gaped at him incredulously. After having watched him being half-dragged to the cabin a few days ago, defeated, degraded, barely able to stand, close to death from torture, it was unbelievable to see him emerge now, solidly on his feet. And with a startling new appearance that, though it didn't at all disguise him, certainly did make a very clear statement that something had emphatically changed. In that outrageous getup, he should have looked ridiculous; but, when his eyes fastened on you, the dramatic outfit was suddenly not absurd but intimidating. He stood framed in the war room door for a moment, staring fiercely around the room. Runt though he was, with those clothes he looked bigger than before, and as he entered, he _stood _and _moved _bigger - and with a presumptuous arrogance, with a commanding stride, with a cold, steady glare on his face that was an instant challenge to the whole room, to every officer and group leader.

If he had not appeared to them for the first time in the presence of the Boss, they would all have forgotten their mutual enmities and ganged up instantly to destroy him. As it was, for the moment they could only seethe.

He spotted Anaconda across the room, and swept a low, formal, indeed theatrical bow, accentuating it with his big feathered hat.

The Boss, standing with his back to the door at a table spread with maps, had half turned to watch the newcomer's entrance. A thin smile cracked across his black metallic face. His small, self-lit yellow eyes glowed brighter. He laughed. "If it isn't the little Rayman back from the dead!"

He turned to three or four robot officers who stood near him, glaring with no air of welcome whatsoever at the interloper. Anaconda said, grinning, "You see? Don't I know him? Didn't I tell you the incorruptible little chump would turn up on his own? Come on, cough up!" Holding his hand out. Reluctantly, still casting sullen glares towards the door, they dug into their wallets.

Having concluded that transaction, Anaconda turned again with even greater pleasure towards his new subordinate. "Little Rayman! Exploding all rumours, vindicating my confidence, you have appeared!-And how you've risen to the occasion!" His eyes relished first the flamboyant costume, and then glinted around the room at the badly-disguised consternation among the ragtag pirates.

"Yah--In pretty leather and feather, anyway," growled one, a human, in an undertone.

The being they all knew as Rayman halted in the motion of resettling his hat; turned very slowly to face him, only a few feet away.

The pirate could not repress the faintest shadow of a cringe. (The tales of those lacerating balls of energy that had smashed so many robot pirates back on Rayman's planet had left vivid memories.) Then he straightened, raising himself to his full height and considerable bulk - nearly twice the little alien's size, and heaven knows how many times his weight, and glared down at him.

The small black-clad figure stood motionless for a moment, studying the pirate distastefully, as though contemplating how best to squash a particularly repulsive bug. Then, contemptuously, he turned and headed for the Boss.

He strode past the glowering pirate as though there was nothing there. The pirate - perhaps embarrassed by his own wince - grinned, and raised a massive fist bigger than the interloper's head.

But in the instant that the pirate was swinging back his arm, the small figure whirled, and with a long knife snatched apparently out of the air thrust forcibly into the man's abdomen just below the rib cage, then yanked hard sideways. The huge pirate wheezed, then collapsed backwards onto the floor, never having managed to bring the fist forward.

Impassively, the newcomer wrenched the blade out, wiped it off on the fallen pirate's shirt, wiped his gloved hands as well, and settled the dagger back into its place under his coat. Then he glanced coolly around the room.

The onlookers, utterly floored - shocked not only by the sight of Rayman (was that really _Rayman?)_with a knife, but even more by the ruthless speed and efficiency of his attack - didn't stir. He turned again without a second look and moved calmly towards the Boss.

Several men dragged the collapsed pirate out the door. Other than that, the whole room's attention burned onto the black-clad figure as he halted, a few feet away from the Boss - coming barely up to his chest in height, but standing firmly before him. The broad, feathered hat hid his face from most, but the straightness and casual self-assurance of his posture fixed their attention irresistibly. Even robot officers rarely had the nerve to look Anaconda so directly in the eye.

"I heard you asked for me," he said. "Piranha, at your service." He didn't bow again, but gave a nod of his head that was almost as impertinent as the look in his fiercely steady black eyes.

Anaconda looked back at him with a small, wry smile of private amusement. The only robot in the room without a scuff or dent on him, he wore no clothes but a heavy deep red cloak that was pushed back from his shoulders, leaving most of his body visible. That handsome body was of a flat, light-absorbing black, without shininess, almost disappearing into itself. Compared to the other massive, bulky robots, he was more slenderly built, more human-appearing in size and shape; only a little taller, a little more massive than a tall man. But those human-looking arms and hands were solid metal, easily able to tear apart a mere creature of flesh and bone.

"So," he said dryly, "It's 'Piranha' now? Fair enough; what pirate doesn't take a new name when he first becomes... a pirate? Anyway, original costume, decent entrance, competent performance. What have you got planned for an encore?"

Piranha shook his head. "No plans. Awaiting orders."

Anaconda grinned slyly at him. "No plans? You? That I doubt. However, that's unimportant. Little fireball, in five days we will be arriving in a system where my scouts tell me there is a fat planet, lush and green and very rich in precious minerals and stones, which the innocent inhabitants don't know any better than to display everywhere as ornamental trinkets. And, even better, the inhabitants themselves are said to be exceptionally attractive. So we'll probably be there for a while, hunting and gathering.

"Now, though you've promised to run things around here, being that you're just a new recruit - and a rural hayseed at that - it wouldn't do to place you above my first and second mates right away. As it is, I expect they won't be too pleased that you're planning to usurp their positions and probably kill them in the process.

"Oh, by the way, you should meet them. This is Blargh, First Officer and War Commander of the good ship Insurrection, and that's my Second Officer and Strategy Director, Hacker. I know they're fully as delighted to make your acquaintance as you are to make theirs.

"Now, I think when we land I'll send you down there as Blargh's assistant, under his orders, so you can learn the ropes from that old hangman. At least until you can get rid of that disgraceful provincial accent. How does that sound to you?"

Piranha glanced at the two huge robot henchmen, whose glowers were progressively deepening as they took in Anaconda's words. Smiling bitterly, he replied, "I see you want me to learn very fast."

"That's right. Learn fast, _Piranha._ You want that name, live up to it."

* * *

In the presence of the Boss, the pirates' impulses toward self-expression were restrained. But once out in the corridors, Piranha was fair game; and he knew it. It was obvious that not only had the story of the stabbed pirate quickly spread through the ship, but the officers in the war room had also gotten busy, sending quiet orders out to subordinates. Late though it was, empty as the corridors were, it was something of a job to get back to the cabin.

In the dimly lit hallways he managed to duck out of the reach of a few not too well-aimed shots, whose source he never even saw. Once he found himself startlingly face-to-face - or rather, face-to-chest - with an equally startled human pirate who, with Piranha's unyielding eyes on him and those gleaming teeth showing, seemed to think better of going for his sword and slowly backed away. But shortly after that, he was forced to fight two human pirates who both sprang on him together. And then lurched from a near-disaster with the energy cannon of another robot, to an alarming confrontation with a humanoid creature so massive and broad it only had to spread its hands out a little to completely block the corridor. He managed to fend that one off just long enough to duck into the maze of junk and crates heaped at the side of the hall, squeeze himself rapidly through the crannies in it, and scuttle away somewhat crumpled into the darkness, leaving the giant snarling and throwing rubbish around the corridor as it dug after him. And ultimately he had to mislead and lose a number of both human and robot pursuers in the complicated twisting halls of the old section, before he was finally able to return to his cabin unseen.

More than four hours after he had left, he stumbled back in through the door, disshevelled and spattered with blood - so that Elly gave a faint shriek at the sight of him. But the blood wasn't his own. He quietly closed and locked the door behind him, made his way to a chair by the table and collapsed into it. He leaned back and shut his eyes.

"Have you found any guns, Elly?" he said, in an oddly matter-of-fact voice. "I need them."

She was approaching him hesitantly, not sure if he was wounded.

"I have one," she said. "I was able to get into a weapon storage room. It's the kind you wanted, the kind that doesn't need powder. But it only holds one shot." She handed it to him.

He opened his eyes, without much apparent interest, and examined the large old pistol, casually cocking and uncocking it, then unloading and re-loading it as though he had been doing it all his life. He ensured that it was not set to fire, and tucked it into his arsenal. She gave him several small packets of bullets, which he also tucked away.

"Good," he said, closing his eyes again. "I need better weapons, but I'll probably only be able to get them from enemies - I mean, from my _comrades_in arms. In the meantime, Elly, if you're willing to have me survive the next few days, find as many more as you can, as soon as you can. But don't go out again tonight. There seem to be a lot of curfew violations for some reason. Is there any food left?"

And abruptly, still leaning back in the hard chair, he was asleep.

Elly set some food and drink on the table beside him. She sat down in the other chair and looked at him uneasily.

Then carefully she slid the jacket off of him - he started violently, but dropped back to sleep in the same instant - and set about cleaning it up. She needed to do something, anything rather than look at how roughed-up he was; rather than wait to hear hard fists against the door.

But despite her agitated nerves, the hall outside remained quiet. And the incomprehensible figure slouched in the chair didn't stir.

At last, long after she had cleaned his clothes, put the rest of the food away, washed herself (something Rayman had seemed to prefer to have her do now and then, it was starting to become a habit), and sat sewing in the semi-darkness until her eyes simply wouldn't stand it any more, she made her way over to the bed. Piranha might be angry later that she let him sleep in the chair; but she was even more afraid of wakening him.

The most she dared do was slip a pillow behind his head. She managed to get away with that.

* * *

If it had been difficult getting back to the cabin late at night, getting back to Anaconda's war room in the morning, with the halls packed with hundreds of both human and robot pirates, not to mention human slaves of all kinds, should have been next to impossible. But Piranha, or Rayman, had not spent the last couple of days exploring the interior of the ship for nothing. He got most of the way there through the air ducts, exited into a bathroom, and had to run the gauntlet of attackers only for a few corridors before he was able to escape into the dubious safety of Anaconda's presence.

He was greeted by a constellation of considerably darker scowls than he had seen the day before. Anaconda, surrounded again by most of his officers, was pacing the room agitatedly. Something seemed to have happened to his previous aplomb. As Piranha entered, slipping his knife and pistol back into their places, resettling his hat, the Boss whirled on him.

"You're late," he barked. "You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"I know," Piranha said. "I was delayed - five people trying to kill me."

"Bah, excuses," snorted Anaconda. "Get over to the table. All right, where were we?"

"Geography," timidly ventured an enormous, heavily dented robot, a couple of heads taller than the Boss, "Choosing the-"

"Oh, yes, yes," snapped Anaconda. "I know. All of you get down to business! And _you_-" he swivelled towards Piranha again, who was approaching the large map-covered table at the far end of the room, where the officers were all gathered, "Take off that hat!"

Smiling coldly, Piranha removed the hat and went to hang it on a rack near the door (which held mostly large weapons). The pirates couldn't help throwing surreptitious, curious glances in his direction. It was a mystery that he had made it here at all.

That was Rayman's head all right, as many of them had seen it in the past - the springy blond hair, the large, dark, penetrating eyes. None of them had ever seen an expression quite like that on Rayman's face, though: a look that could freeze the life out of a small animal, and put a serious crimp in the blood flow of a big one. Silently he approached the table once again.

Anaconda planted himself suddenly in front of his new subordinate. He was holding a sort of stick or switch in his hand, a thin, white, slightly flexible whiplike affair about two-thirds the length of his long arm. He snapped it forward, aiming the pointed metal tip at Piranha's chest, halting him. Piranha looked up into the Boss's black titanium face impassively.

"Not that way. I have a job for you," said the Boss.

Piranha stood attentively.

"Stay there," said Anaconda. He turned back to the table, snatched up a small square of thin paper-like material, grabbed one of the map markers and scribbled something on it. He folded it up small and returned to Piranha.

"Here. You take this to Blargh. Don't read it."

"Where is he?" Piranha said, taking the paper and sliding it into a pocket.

"Somewhere about the engine room. Or maybe the slave quarters. Or possibly in the officer's bar, that clanking sot. You'll have to find him."

Piranha nodded and turned to go. Just as he was lifting his hat off the rack, Anaconda barked again.

"Wait a minute."

Piranha stopped in mid-motion, turned a little to look at him.

"Before you do that. Come back over here."

Piranha replaced his hat on the stand and returned to his previous position in front of Anaconda.

Anaconda smiled down at him. A very wide, very thin, startlingly chilling smile on that metal face which didn't look capable of so much expression. His small, oval yellow eyes pulsated a little, glowing strongly even in the brightly lit room.

Anaconda reached over with his stick, like a man examining a dangerous, possibly diseased animal, or some sort of questionable merchandise in a flea market. He lifted up one side of Piranha's loose black jacket, then the other side.

"Take off that coat," Anaconda said.

Piranha silently complied. He laid the jacket on the floor nearby and stood there in his ruffled, armless shirt and black vest, his inscrutable gaze not leaving Anaconda's face.

Anaconda eyed him with an expression as noncommittal as his own. Then he reached forward with the stick, raised up one of Piranha's black-gloved hands, extending it away from his body.

Piranha made no resistance. His expressionless gaze didn't flicker.

With a fastidious expression, Anaconda lifted the other hand. He contemplated the small figure for a moment. Then, deliberately, he passed his stick through the space between the hands and the body, where there weren't any arms; under the head, where there was no sign of a neck; then between the top of the boots and the body, where there weren't any legs. Piranha showed no reaction.

_"_So _this _is the mysterious spirit of air, that gave us all that trouble," the Boss said musingly. "Belongs more in a magic act, wouldn't you say? It'd be nothing to saw this one in half." He stood there for a moment, the stick quivering just slightly in his grip. Piranha held motionless as he'd been positioned, his unreadable gaze still fixed on Anaconda's face.

"All right, then, get on with it." Anaconda abruptly turned away and walked back towards the table.

Piranha picked up his coat and put it back on. He headed back towards his hat.

Just as he was lifting it off the stand, though, Anaconda's voice came again. "Hold on."

In the same motion, without a break, Piranha replaced the hat and returned to the middle of the room, looking at the Boss as impassively as before.

Anaconda was smiling again. "I almost forgot. Just one other little thing I wanted to see."

Piranha waited.

"For those of us who haven't had the privilege of beholding you in action." He grabbed the arm of a scruffy human officer standing nearby, and dragged the startled man forward, placing him in front of Piranha about twenty feet away. "Go ahead. Hit him."

Piranha's brow wrinkled. "What?"

The man was staring at the small dark figure, glancing around the room at the other pirates desperately, sweat breaking out on his face.

Piranha took an uncertain step forward. Anaconda said, silkily, "Strike him from where you are. I want to see those famous magic powers close up."

"Ah." Piranha turned an intense gaze on the hapless pirate. The man couldn't more than glance at him. He'd been present the day before when the other pirate was stabbed. Now he was starting to quiver a little. The surrounding pirates, both human and robot, stirred uneasily, menacingly, muttering, growling, their eyes fixed on Piranha with hostility.

It occurred so quickly, then, that at first no one quite knew what had happened. Piranha stood motionless; then abruptly his hand, his whole body, made a violent twist, something flashed. Almost the only sign that he had moved was that he was suddenly in a different position, slightly crouched with one hand outstretched. The man across from him gave a belated yelp; he felt himself all over, confusedly, ending with his head. His three-cornered hat was gone.

"Oops," said Piranha placidly, straightening up. "Missed."

"There it is," shouted another pirate. The hat, impaled on a long knife, was still quivering against the far wall.

Anaconda was looking in consternation at the black-clad figure. "I _said-"_

"Toss it back to me, would you?" said Piranha.

A nearby robot grabbed the knife out of the wall, yanked the hat off, and with all the power of his metal arm shot it back towards Piranha like an arrow, aiming forcefully at his chest. Piranha snatched the knife out of the air and smoothly planted it back in its sheath, with such apparent effortlessness that again it took a couple of moments before anyone grasped that the blade hadn't gone right through him.

"Thanks," he said. Rapidly he turned, grabbed his hat and shoved it onto his head, and made for the door all in the same motion.

At the door he paused an instant, glancing back at Anaconda.

"I'll have to practice more with that knife, won't I? A magic act, not a bad idea."

Quickly, before the Boss could answer, Piranha slipped out. Anaconda stood eyeing the door thoughtfully, his yellow eyes narrowed.

* * *

For Piranha, being thrust into the corridors to make a run through the ship didn't feel much different from being flung into a gladiatorial arena. The hallways, much more brightly lit now during daylight hours, were packed with both human and robot pirates, as well as male and female human slaves hurrying frantically about. Well, he had needed to get back into the game; he set off without hesitation.

With his size, his distinctive clothes, and his unique physique, he was an instantly recognizable figure even to those who'd only heard about him. He was interested to notice that a fair number of both the human and robot pirates, rather than attacking, tended to withdraw to the far side of the hall the moment they laid eyes on him. Indeed, quite a few of them would simply vanish, practically melting into the walls. When he tried the experiment of raising up one of his weaponless hands, just slightly raising it, several nearby robot pirates instantly flung themselves into a neighbouring passageway in such a wild scrambling heap that he could hear them caroming loudly off of each other, clanging and cursing, for several minutes after he passed by. A little smile quirked at his mouth.

Nevertheless, the attacks that had begun the night before were not letting up. It was a lucky thing that Rayman, during the invasion of his planet, had fought with so many of the robots that Piranha knew where at least some of their weak points were - even if, back then, it had never been necessary to get in so close. Fighting these brutes, with their long reach and nearly invulnerable limbs, was tough enough even with that knowledge.

He edged down the corridors - not very familiar yet with most of them, not very certain where he was going, reduced practically to feeling his way step by step - all his senses fiercely alert for any sound or motion, his weapons ready; travelling at an angle to make sure nothing could sneak up behind him. If there seemed any chance he might be ganged up on, he would duck into a side corridor or behind one of the many stacks of crates and debris too close to the wall for the huge pirates to squeeze behind. He might pull himself up on top the crates, crouching there silently until the potential danger passed by, or continue his journey leaping catlike from stack to stack, or even jumping up high to seize the lamps hanging from the ceiling and swing himself rapidly down the corridor through the air.

But when he couldn't avoid a fight, he attacked with silent ferocity, and went mercilessly straight for the fastest, most complete possible finish to the combat. Fighting a robot, he would aim a dagger-thrust hard into a joint or crevice he knew could cause a loss of power to part of the body, or jam crucial gears, or short out the whole machine, or - more unexpectedly - cause the explosive jetting out of half the oil reserve right into his face, momentarily blinding him, making him lose his footing, and leaving him open to another attack (which he almost miraculously managed to roll away from, before whipping around and launching himself back at the second attacker). As for humans, though they were almost as big as the robots, they were easier to deal with.

And between fights, trying to locate Blargh, he had to ask for information - which generally resulted in another fight.

It was hours after he'd left the war room that a somewhat dishevelled, battered, but remarkably self-possessed Piranha finally made it to the central plumbing section in the depths of the ship, where he had tracked down the First Mate. He entered the noisy room, spotted the hulking, corroded, brass-coloured robot, clad in the remains of a once-green shirt, standing a head taller than the rest. He strode forward.

"Good god," said a human. Blargh turned to see a small black form bearing down on him. He swivelled around completely to face him, straightening so as to glare from his full height.

Piranha came directly up to him, his head barely at the height of Blargh's waist. He stopped a couple of feet away and reached with one hand into his coat.

Blargh lunged for him. And glanced around, confused - Piranha was several feet further away, looking annoyed.

"Stop that," snapped Piranha. "I have something for you from the Boss."

He reached again into his coat and pulled the scrap of paper out of a little pocket.

Suspiciously, Blargh accepted it and slowly opened it up, turning it back and forth and upside down several times until he decided how best to read it.

His dim little eyes travelled carefully over the scrawl. Then started to glow a bright red - not a good sign. His glare moved from the paper to fasten itself onto the messenger.

Who glared back, disdainfully.

"So _that's_ it," rumbled Blargh.

Piranha said nothing.

"Get out of here," growled Blargh.

Piranha looked at him appraisingly for a couple more seconds. Then turned and walked casually away.

He must have had eyes in the back of his head, however, because when the huge metal pipe-cap landed a moment later right where he was, he wasn't there anymore.

He sprang again to his feet, having rolled out of the way, paused and turned once more to eye Blargh directly. The 50-pound hat-shaped piece of metal was still spinning and wobbling noisily on the floor where it had failed to hit him.

"Hand slipped," Blargh muttered.

Piranha's fierce dark eyes abruptly, unnervingly, switched to a metallic silver and black. He stood straight, utterly motionless, fixating Blargh with a penetrating stare.

Some of the human pirates watching couldn't repress a slight shudder. Seeing the little creep at that moment, it was impossible to keep in mind how small he was. No matter how many times you looked at him.

* * *

It was Anaconda's pleasant game over the next couple of days to keep Piranha on the run as much as possible, launching him through the huge ship on one errand or another, usually ordering him to find Blargh or Hacker to ask or tell them some idiotic or antagonizing or embarrassing message. Piranha continued to take it all completely straight, performed every task given him without comment or protest or so much as a wry look.

But he was showing some slight signs of strain. When he could, two or three times a day, he made his way back to the cabin to breathe for a few moments, wash himself down, and get some food and water. Although Rayman, since being on the ship, had eaten mostly with reluctance, Piranha seemed to have an appetite as voracious as his name. Whenever in the cabin he would also take the opportunity to sleep, in short naps of ten or fifteen minutes, then be up again, cold, feverish, grim. If any unexpected noise occurred, he was liable to lurch impossibly across the room, landing with a weapon in each hand. He had no conversation whatsoever - spoke to Elly only to give orders or receive information, and otherwise seemed unaware of her existence. She watched him for signs that he needed something, and stayed out of his way.

He continued to work on his weapons collection. He found that few of the pirates carried guns on the ship. Those he did capture weren't of much use, lacking much extra ammunition. On the other hand, he soon had more daggers and swords than he could possibly use. Just on principle, he took possession of them anyway whenever he had the chance. Then, in his cabin, he would practice with the more promising ones, whisking them in and out of his vest, duelling with invisible opponents to get their heft, then picking out the ones most useful to him and stashing the rest around the cabin.

Elly watched him silently from a corner of the room, afraid to attract the glare of those cold, fierce eyes, but also rather fascinated. His relentless energy was uncanny, even the tireless robots didn't have anything like it. Outbreaks of violence among the pirates were nothing new to her, but she had never seen anyone so heavily and continually attacked; nor so bluntly capable of dealing with such an onslaught.

* * *

By the third day, the attacks were losing some of their momentum. A degree of perplexity was growing throughout the ship.

How _could_ the little twerp still be alive? Not to mention swaggering down the hallways as though they belonged to him. Leaving a trail of carnage behind that could have been impressive, even grudgingly admirable, if he hadn't been - well, whatever he was. No pirate, that was for sure.

Those robots who'd returned in one piece from the invasion of Rayman's planet all insisted that back then, during that war, no one had had any respect for the little freak, dangerous as he was. Why should they? He had none for himself. Fighting had seemed to be a _game_ to him, with that built-in supply of fireballs that he could throw off effortlessly as insults. He had been known to grin, even to laugh, to clown around, to play _pranks _during a firefight. How could you take him seriously as an enemy when even he obviously saw himself as an amateur, a kid, a featherweight little joker who jumped off cliffs without harm, flew with his hair, and shot unfair bolts of devastating energy that only proved he was a cheater? And then there had been times (stories recounted by veterans with eye-rolling scorn), when he _could_have killed someone easily enough and just hadn't bothered. He had even been known to let an enemy get away just so he could laugh at his fleeing back. And not once had he ever taken the trouble to pick up a piece of booty, not even a diamond ring, not even if it rolled right up to his feet... as had notoriously happened after his offhand destruction of the elegant Zobu. He'd just glanced at it, kicked it into a nearby river, and trotted off in search of some stupid friend of his. He was an _amateur_.

No, that mockery of a fighter was no pirate, it was an insult even to have to raise him to the level of an enemy. It was outrageous that anything so absurd as that purple puffball could have given them as much trouble as he did. A quarter of their losses had been taken just in the final battle to capture the infuriating little rat.

But something had changed since he had arrived on the ship. That dark presence confronting them wasn't the same kind of opponent. He was still small, still erratic and unpredictable, but there wasn't anything lightweight about him now. The power and remorseless savagery of his attacks had to trigger a certain amount of, well, respect. He didn't stay at a distance like a cheat anymore - you could get right in there and hit. At least, you could have if he hadn't been moving fast as lightning and striking twice as hard. Fighting them on their own terms, using their own weapons, he seemed impossible as ever to make a dent on - but now, that fact was less of an insult than an increasingly frustrating but intriguing challenge. At the very least, he had become something comprehensible.

There did remain the lurking fear that, pressed hard enough, he might still let loose one of those cheat shots he surely still kept up his (so to speak) sleeve. There was much impassioned argument about that. What was going on anyway? Had he lost his powers, being taken off his own planet? Was that why he now used knives and guns? Some said so; but most shook their heads, pointing out that there was no way a small soft half-missing thing like that could possibly move among them with the arrogance, the casual disdainfulness that he did, if he hadn't had his secret weapon in reserve. What was there _to_ him, after all? If anyone had just managed to lay a hand on him, get in one good solid swat, he could have been flicked away like a speck of dust. If anyone had actually managed.

[End of Chapter 7, Part 1]


	9. Hazing, Part 2

_This is the continuation of Chapter 7. It was so long I thought I'd better split it up._

_Once again: Rayman (going under another name, but still the same guy) is © UbiSoft Entertainment. The rest is pretty much mine, except insofar as I've unconsciously stolen from all the clichés out there._

**Chapter Seven: Hazing, Part 2**

For the past two days, Anaconda had contented himself with simply sending Piranha out on pointless missions. He hadn't permitted the new recruit to come near the map table or even to hang around the room during any planning discussions. On the third day, however, late in the afternoon, when Piranha stumbled through the war room door at last after a six-hour series of detours, Anaconda came up to him with a broad smile that made Piranha glance at him warily.

"Getting to know the ship pretty well by now, I should think?" Anaconda said pleasantly.

"Uh-huh," muttered Piranha, absently. He was still panting a little, having lunged through the door only just ahead of a clump of attackers. He was considering how long they might continue to lie in wait for him out there, and exactly what would be the best method of exit from the room when he was sent off again.

"Very good," said Anaconda. By now all the officers had raised their heads from the discussion around the table to watch Anaconda and his pet. "So you know us better now. It's time for us to get more acquainted with _you."_

Piranha's gaze snapped onto him, all attention now.

Smiling, Anaconda took hold of a human slave who'd been darting about the room fetching maps, pencils, drinks. He yanked him into position to face Piranha from across the room.

"You made an error last time," smiled Anaconda sweetly. "But since after all you're just an ignorant country bumpkin, I'm going to give you another chance. Mind you, I don't give many second chances. –Now _hit_ him."

Piranha glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Anaconda's last three words had come out as an abrupt snarl.

Piranha looked over at the slave, a young human-like being somewhat taller than himself, pale, with wild sandy hair, skinny, undernourished, and right now frozen with wide-eyed horror. He sighed.

Anaconda was glowering at him. He whipped his thin white stick through the air impatiently, pointing it at Piranha. "Have you forgotten already?" he hissed. "How you got here?"

Piranha looked at him quietly, then again at the slave. As the roomful of pirates watched with fascination, he took a deep breath, leaned back a little, and then flung forward a black-gloved fist. It shot across the room, striking the boy in the chest and sending him staggering backwards several steps, then flew swiftly back to its place.

Piranha had closed his eyes. The dead was stirring. Half-revived by his action, groping, stabbing blindly inside him; setting off such a torrent of painful emotion that he could scarcely breathe. It hadn't been a good idea to do that.

A low murmur was washing through the room. Anaconda strode over and grabbed Piranha by the collar, gave him a hard shake.

"Enough circus acts! You _know_ I meant to use those fireballs of yours!" He threw Piranha away from him. Piranha staggered a little, recovered.

Anaconda pointed the whip at the slave. His eyes gleamed intensely. "Hit him _now!"_

Piranha took a long breath. He shook his head. "I can't," he muttered.

"You what?" said Anaconda slowly.

"I _can't."_ He held out his hands to show the emptiness of his palms. It would have been physically impossible for him in any case to use an energy shot against that defenseless boy – for all the difference that made.

He didn't need to look at the surrounding pirates to sense the surge of disbelieving joy beginning to spark through them all. A very soft groan escaped him.

He could see what had just been done to him. He'd been executed. His single tiny psychological advantage in dealing with the pirates had been wiped out.

Anaconda, indeed, was grinning at him incredulously. "So it's true, then? Taking you away from your planet, you lost your powers? ... How unfortunate!"

Piranha didn't look at him. The room – the whole ship – felt like a vast predatory set of fangs about to snap.

He caught a glimpse of the young slave across the room from him. He was gazing at Piranha intently, with a touch of wonder – and sympathy. His eyes were a bright, catlike green. Piranha turned away as another painful twinge went through him.

The pirates were grinning at each other. Anaconda had folded his arms, the white stick wagging from one hand like a schoolteacher's pointer. He was gazing at the small black figure, his head tilted a little, his eyes glowing brightly, a restrained but relishing smile on his face.

Piranha's eyes closed again. His lips tightened, baring his teeth.

Hadn't a deal been made? Wasn't he doing everything possible to keep to it? And these fools had the nerve to play idiot, irresponsible games with the one and only reason for his existence? The only reason he was not now dead? The only reason he was enduring all this?

His breath came out in a slow, enraged hiss. His big fists clenched. His black eyes snapped open.

Anaconda was still watching him, one metal eyebrow raised.

Their eyes met. Anaconda's thin smile widened.

***

Still smiling, Anaconda let Piranha stay for the planning session this time. He sent the human slave away and gave Piranha the job of steward, filling the pirates' cups with the foul-smelling greasy substance both humans and robots consumed, and toting maps and markers from one end of the long table to the other. Silently, Piranha did as he was told. He didn't think it was pure egotism on his part that gave him the feeling that the pirates had a lot more attention on their small black-clad servant than on the discussions they were supposed to be having. There was a sense of anticipation in the room, as if everyone were waiting for a birthday party to begin. He grinned wryly. He didn't intend to become the piñata.

As the meeting went on, however, the officers became more absorbed in their arguments. Piranha, peering over their shoulders by standing on the sideboard where the bottles and cups were kept, or hopping onto a chair, took in the planetary maps with some curiosity.

Anaconda, whose temper had apparently improved, walked about, seeming to pay little attention to the talk, or sprawled casually in a chair. He didn't take part in the discussion; at most making the occasional inarticulate grunt, or tapping the table lightly with his stick. Which invariably resulted in an abrupt reversal of opinion in whoever had just spoken.

The discussion or rather dissension ebbed back and forth, over and over the same ground, rising to an ever higher pitch of irritation, never coming to any conclusion. The only practical result after some hours of growling and drinking seemed to be that the officers had all reached a state of mutual irritation and visible inebriation.

Piranha perched on the sideboard, watching the performance with increasing distaste.

"You see? We're going to have to avoid these big cities. Too many guns, too many police, armies, governments in big cities. Stay out in the boondocks, stay out of trouble." Blargh seemed to be mechanically reciting a catechism drilled into him in some remote past.

Hacker rolled his protruding metal eyes. "How many times do we have to go over this? There's a thousand times more plunder in a city. And what do you think they've got that can stand against this ship? We're not going up against a super technological civilization here. I say plunk ourselves down in the middle of the biggest burg and just keep shooting until they stop coming. Then we can saunter out and gather up what we want."

"Yeah, if there is anything. There wouldn't be a slave left alive in the place."

"Bah," growled Hacker, "Slaves are more trouble than they're worth. Rusty bolts, just try to keep the damn things healthy and saleable! I say go for the booty–"

Anaconda looked up. All eyes instantly turned to him.

"We take the usual prisoners," he murmured. He gave Hacker the kind of smile that made Piranha wince when it was aimed at him. Hacker winced. Anaconda draped himself back over his chair and gazed off into space.

A sort of exhalation went through the room – though robots don't breathe – and the discussion resumed.

Looking triumphant, Blargh was saying, "Ha! So we'll land in a remote area, up north where it's summer. Now, logistics. We're not sending down any robots this time, except for a couple of officers on a rotation basis. I don't want to risk any more–"

Another robot officer in a blue three-cornered hat rumbled, "You're going to leave _humans_ in charge?"

A couple of human officers began to bristle. "Just what do you mean by that?" demanded one.

Piranha was watching with raised eyebrows.

The robot officer shrugged unpleasantly. "Oh, I expect humans are fairly competent, in their way... as far as that goes..."

One of the humans lurched forward a little, the other took hold of his arm to restrain him.

A couple of robot officers nearby stood up straighter, raising their fists warningly.

More humans and more robots around the room began to growl. A few knives flashed into view – to the contemptuous amusement of the robots.

Piranha glanced at Anaconda. He was smiling slightly, absently examining his fingers, apparently oblivious.

Blargh was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes glowing bright red. But he was engaged in a furious argument with Hacker, paying no attention to the impending combat among the officers.

Even Anaconda's three bodyguards, normally a silent, motionless, though highly visible presence at one end of the room, were shouting now. One of them raised his big gun and advanced on a human pirate, who backed into a group of another five humans, all facing the robot as a defiant though slightly shaky wall.

By now, not a word could be understood in the cacophony. But the noise was abruptly halted by a shocking crash that startled the whole room into attention.

"Honestly," said Piranha (having just tossed a large, heavy ceramic plate off the sideboard where he still perched). Sitting down offhandedly with his feet dangling, he continued, "I'm disappointed. I was expecting to be a _little_ impressed by you pirates. But it's a lot clearer now why it took you almost a year to finally catch me."

Blargh threw down his bronze cup with such force that instead of bouncing or rolling, it simply squashed on the floor. He strode forward a few steps towards Piranha, who gazed at him with calm irony.

"Shut your mouth!" roared Blargh. "You smirking little know-it-all! Five hundred galactic cycles we've been in this business, and now we have to change all our methods!" His not very melodious mechanical voice became still harsher with rage. "Ever since landing on _your_ triple-damned hellhole of a planet! We lost 750 good robots in that venture, 750, and what the hell do we have to show for it but _you!_ Holy ramping reamers, who let you ou–"

It was just then that a little motion recalled the fact to Blargh that the captain was nearby, lazily swinging an arm off the back of his chair. Furious as he was, Blargh halted suddenly in the middle of a word.

Piranha looked at him coolly. "Can't fix the past. Best deal with the future."

"That's just what we're going to do, you – gap-toothed flywheel! Make stinking sure nothing like _that _ever happens again! Who could've expected to meet such resistance on a planet that hadn't any more technology than a –"

_"This _planet you're aiming at," said Piranha dryly, "hasn't any technology to speak of. Hasn't any magic either, from what you've been saying. You already know how to handle it. So why not just finish up your plans and get ready for tomorrow?"

"The plans _are_ finished–" Blargh bellowed. Then paused. "Well, yes, in fact they are."

There was a moment of confusion around the room, robots and humans looking at each other in perplexity.

Hacker, the second mate, muttered, "I guess so – we just need to draw up the duty lists."

The blue-hatted officer added, "The computer will have those set up in a couple of hours."

"The northern coast landing was what we decided on yesterday," said Blargh, still looking a little surprised. "Didn't we?"

"Um... I think we did." Hacker frowned irritably. "And the human officers, well, we have to use them, don't we."

The blue-hatted officer shrugged. "Can't be helped."

They all glared at each other, painfully at a loss for something to disagree on. Then, as a group, swivelled to focus their glares on Piranha.

"Still a know-it-all..." rumbled Blargh.

Piranha looked at him, smiling coldly.

At that point, Anaconda got out of his chair. The room's attention switched over to him.

"Well, then," he said pleasantly, "Since everything is decided after all, I'd say we should take the advice of our new officer here and get prepared for tomorrow. Blargh, Hacker, I want to see both of you at 0800 with the finalized plan. And Blargh, make sure Piranha is there at the same time – armed and ready to go."

"Him? Armed? How would I stick them on him?" snorted Blargh. Some of the officers chuckled quietly, others rolled their eyes.

Piranha, eyes narrowed, stood up on the sideboard.

Blargh added, "The little freak's going in under my command, isn't that what you said, Boss? Good, I'll have him ready all right." He glanced sidelong at Piranha, who crouched slightly, his fists tightening.

"Hm, yes, I was meaning to mention that," smiled Anaconda. "No, he won't be under your command after all. I think I'll send him in as a third independent commander. Give him his own division and see how he does."

Some internal gears seemed to go out of synch in Blargh for a moment, with a metallic screech. He gasped, "Boss. You _can't_ seriously–" Then sputtered into silence.

For a moment, Anaconda was very still. Then, in the dead quiet of the room, he murmured, "You know, I'm finding myself forced to agree with the little freak. The past is past. Blargh, you're far too inclined to hold a grudge. You two shake hands and make up."

"Shake _hands?_" howled Blargh, clearly pushed far beyond what any mortal being could be fairly asked to endure. "I'll _shake_ him all right –"

From Piranha's expression, the idea didn't much appeal to him either.

Anaconda crossed his arms. There was a subdued stir through the room, a tremor. "Blargh," he said, coldly, "you're stepping a little too far over the line, don't you think? Now shake his hand. And don't crush it."

Reluctantly, Blargh extended a huge metal paw. Equally reluctantly, Piranha hopped down from the sideboard and came over to him, reached up a black-gloved hand less than half the size of the robot's. They shook hands, quickly, and Piranha yanked his hand away, rubbing it with the other, glaring at Blargh. Blargh glared back venomously. Anaconda put on a chilling smile.

"That's better. Now as our new Chief of the Third Division has pointed out, we're not dealing this time with magic planet like the ... last one. Fortunately, since they truly are more trouble than they're worth. Very poor quality slaves, too. Untamable little yokels who can hardly speak proper Galactic. Though possibly valuable if their raw energies can be ... disciplined."

Anaconda came over and put a heavy hand on Piranha's back. Piranha forced himself to hold still, his face impassive, though he could scarcely breathe for rage. The robot pirates were staring at him like so many stoplights, a phalanx of burning red eyes. Clearly, none of them liked his promotion, if that was what it was; least of all Blargh. Nor were they pleased with the sudden favouritism the Boss was lavishing on this invader. If Anaconda's every action had been calculated strictly to inflame the hatred Piranha already had to deal with on the ship, he couldn't have done any better...

Anaconda was saying to the officers, "The northern mountains are an ideal landing place, the natives there by all reports are exceptionally handsome. Make sure you have at least 500 punishment boxes ready for troublemakers, and six large dormitories to house the first shipment of cargo. Be ready to start landing at 0830. The invasion will begin at 10:00 hours tomorrow; which will be about midnight for the area where we land. Those primitives, they go to bed with the sun, they'll never see us coming. You are all dismissed."

There was not a word spoken in the room as the officers filed out. But the atmosphere was smoky with ill-contained rage. Anaconda's grip hard on his back, Piranha was unable to dart for the door before the others. He stood tensely, watching them go. No use trying to leave now, he'd be surrounded.

Anaconda gestured with his free hand. His three robot bodyguards stirred, looking a little startled, and at his repeated gesture also reluctantly left the room, the last to go. They paused to aim a pointed glare at Piranha. Then the door closed.

Anaconda let go of his subordinate and strolled to the back of the room. He lounged back against the wall, as if preparing to be entertained.

As Piranha glanced at him in frank confusion, he smiled and made a brief gesture as though gripping a sword.

The warning wasn't necessary. As the Boss showed no intention of leaving, Piranha himself went up to the closed door. He paused for a moment, pulling out his weapons. He reached out a hand to touch the door handle, then thought better of it and pressed the door lock instead.

Instantly, at the sound of the lock, there was a furious bellow on the other side of the door, a crash, and the door began to vibrate with blows. Shots and shouts and howls went up. There were clearly a lot of large enraged bodies out there.

Piranha raced over to the very heavy sideboard and with huge effort shoved it across the room to block the door. He turned for a frantic moment to the Boss.

"Anaconda," he panted, "I'm afraid there'll be a short wait before I can let you out."

Anaconda said, smiling, "Lucky thing you didn't lose your strength along with your fireballs, isn't it?"

The visible part of the metal door was showing a few faint dents under the pounding outside. Piranha looked at it grimly. This was going to take some handling.

Anaconda added, placidly, "Surely you knew what would happen if you opened your mouth."

It was not an ideal time for a conversation. Piranha, still intent on the jumping, jerking door, rapidly checked that his pistol was loaded, saying abstractedly, "I never have been good at keeping my mouth shut. It's a fault."

"Yes, I see that. Well, I suppose it's up to me now. All right, Piranha. Come along."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think you want to be excused just yet." Without moving from where he was leaning, Anaconda reached up and lightly touched a spot high on the wall. A door-sized section of the metal bulkhead turned from grey to smoky to black. Piranha raised an eyebrow.

"Bet they don't have anything like this on your backwards little planet, eh? Now come on. They'll break through soon, and wouldn't you like to give them a surprise? Like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding an empty box."

"That's a magic portal?"

"Magic? Pooh. _Technology,_ bumpkin."

Reminded of entrances, Piranha turned his attention back to the one he was guarding. The banging had been hard enough to jolt the sideboard a few inches away. He shoved it back. "I don't want to run away from these –"

"You come now. I know you think you can take them all on, but I assure you it's not a good idea. Don't worry, you'll have plenty more chances to fight. Besides, I don't want you to destroy my best men."

The melee outside had organized itself sufficiently that the banging on the door was now in unison, some heavy object apparently being used as a battering ram. "One – two – three –" The big liquor cabinet was jerking with the blows. Piranha stood hunched, ready, considering. He'd need a lot of speed, but if he climbed up onto the cabinet, hiding behind the door as they shoved it inwards, he could take a flying leap onto some metallic head and bounce up to the ceiling lamps before they –

"Piranha. This is an order. Come now, or I'll shoot you myself."

Reluctantly, Piranha turned towards him. He didn't like the idea of being too close to Anaconda. Worse than that, he very much didn't want to be rescued by the Boss, even if it was a real rescue. It would make him, if possible, still more hated on the ship. But he obeyed.

Anaconda, seeing him approach, turned and walked into the black patch. Although it looked like a flat black wall, he passed right through it and disappeared. Piranha gripped his weapons tightly, narrowed his eyes, and stepped into it.

On the other side, to his surprise, was a simple passageway. Anaconda was standing there, a large dark smudge melting into the almost complete blackness. He stood with his arms crossed, ironically tapping his foot. The only lighting was a series of dim greenish floor glow-lights that showed the way down the corridor. The tunnel was narrow and low; Anaconda's head seemed nearly to hit the ceiling. Behind Piranha, the black wall suddenly went grey and solid again; though he couldn't see the change very well, he could feel the passageway become even more close and airless.

Without a word, Anaconda set off quickly down the corridor. Piranha, at several paces' distance, silently followed. As they moved away from the conference room, he could faintly hear crashing, and shouts, first of triumph, then of consternation. He stilled the twist of dismay and anger in himself and continued.

They walked for a long time, at least half an hour, through the narrow, twisting, sharp-angled passageway. Piranha was studying it as well as he could as he went on. It must go between rooms. Had Anaconda built it, or was it part of the ship originally? He thought of some odd bends and detours that had puzzled him in the ventilation system, and his eyes widened. Could there be more hidden routes like this around the ship? How many people knew about them?

Abruptly, the passageway ended. Anaconda pushed another hidden switch, the location of which Piranha noted carefully – it was high on the wall, well over his own head – and pushed through a virtually invisible black door. Piranha followed him, and emerged into a largish room not any better lit than the corridor. In the dimness, Piranha, glancing intently around, saw large block-like shapes like big oblong boxes on the floor. Or coffins – no, they were bigger than that. They certainly didn't resemble any ordinary furniture.

Anaconda turned to Piranha. With his black body and his long dark cape, his form was indistinct; only his small glowing eyes were brightly visible.

"Tell me," he said. "Didn't you know you'd lose your fireballs when we took you away from your planet?"

Piranha tensed; this room was unfamiliar, practically invisible, and full of unknown barriers, an alarming place to have to defend oneself. "I never thought about it."

"You never _thought_ about it?"

"My mind was on other things."

Anaconda eyed him with ironic amusement. "So you're damaged goods, little fireball. No more fireballs. Knowing how so-called "magic" is, I did suspect something like that might happen when you were taken away from your planet. So I won't take that as a breach of contract – though when it comes to making excuses, you are surely the most inept liar of any officer I've ever had the pleasure to deal with. That's another thing you really need to work on – along with your knife technique."

Piranha looked at him, a bit startled.

Anaconda added, "Still, though, you seem to be doing all right. I think you're going to make it. That might not be such a bad thing for me."

He stepped over beside one of the boxes and lifted the top, then turned again to look at Piranha. In the faint light reflected from his eyes, his face changed; he was grinning. "No, you're not doing too badly. There always has been a tiny little streak of the pirate in you, don't you think? Clever of me to notice. But then, who ever heard of a real hero without that?"

Piranha said nothing.

Anaconda turned back to the box, and reaching into the blackness – Piranha wondered if, with his self-lit eyes, or perhaps some other sort of sensors, he was able to see in complete darkness – he took something out, a small light weapon. So this room was a hidden arsenal.

Anaconda continued, "Our partnership covers bigger things, after all, than one little guy fighting one little battle at a time with a handful of little energy spheres. Correct? And blast guns, though less pretty, and not quite as magical, can blow things up just as thoroughly as fireballs. – Calm down, bucolic boy, I'm not attacking you, _take_ the thing."

"What is it?"

"What? I just told you. It's an energy gun. Now take it and get rid of that pathetic antique you're lugging around."

Piranha didn't move. "I'd prefer if you'd demonstrate it first."

Anaconda gave a short laugh. "Does that mean you trust me? or mistrust me? Well, no matter." He fired the gun briefly at the wall. A beam shot out and for an instant the room exploded with bright light as the energy struck the metal wall and a large round patch flared, flamed, and curled into metal fragments. "There, now, did that look booby-trapped?"

"A couple more times, please," Piranha said impassively.

"Really," said Anaconda. "I'm hurt at your distrustfulness. After all, don't I have enough confidence to let _you_ in here alone with _me?_ I thought you hero types believed in the fundamental, underlying goodness and decency of all sentient beings, and all that."

Piranha was silent for a moment. "I'm not a hero. But yes, I suppose I do believe that. Usually."

"Oh, you're a hero all right," Anaconda grinned. "You've got all the signs. I'm quite pleased, I've always wanted one of my very own."

Piranha said, very quietly, not meeting his eyes, "Anaconda... I think you're talking about someone else."

Anaconda tilted his head, looking at him with sudden hard seriousness. Then he raised the gun again. Piranha fought an impulse to dodge behind a box.

Once, twice, Anaconda fired again at the wall. "All right," he said smoothly, "that's enough. Now take it." He pressed a switch to turn off the weapon and pushed it into Piranha's hand.

Anaconda went on, as Piranha peered closely at the gun in the dim light, "I don't allow anyone except guards to carry these on board, for obvious reasons. You can recharge it using the ship's electrical system. It'll deplete pretty fast if you use it at full power the way I just did. Still, this should help your odds a bit. I'd make a few more bets on you, but, you know, I can't seem to get any takers."

He watched, arms crossed, as Piranha carefully stowed the weapon in his vest. "Just don't blow apart too many of my robot pirates," he added sardonically. "One or two will be plenty."

Piranha straightened. "I'd better go. I've got a lot to do tonight."

"Oh, yes – and don't kill all of the lower-level group leaders either. You're going to need some supporters."

Piranha looked at him with slight distaste. "If there's anything I can't stand, it's politics."

"One can't do without it, my boy. Above all, not on this ship. Don't forget, you're to present yourself tomorrow at 0800 hours, ready to start your job. You've had a nice honeymoon but it's over.

"Now go through that passage over there, you'll come out at the third level, port side, two-thirds aft, in a side corridor near the robot officers' quarters level. Make it quick, the outside portal will only be open for half a minute." He pressed a spot on the wall, invisible in the darkness, and another black door opened up like the one by which they had entered.

Piranha glanced at the door, then again at Anaconda. He hesitated, as though about to say something; then turned away and without a word slipped out of the room.

Mercifully, the corridor outside the portal was deserted. From what Anaconda had said, he was a very long distance from his own cabin; it was on the other side of the ship several levels down. He debated for an instant. Should he should return to his cabin? Elly had been alone there for many hours. Or should he seek out his rivals and get the battle over with once and for all?

He paused for a moment to take a better look at the energy gun Anaconda had given him. He checked it over, puzzled. It had several settings ranging from mild to impressive destruction. It appeared to be fully charged. He couldn't find a thing wrong with it. He eyed it, his brow wrinkling.

Then he took a deep breath. It had just hit him, how much difference this small object was going to make to his survival. He glanced back at the wall where the invisible portal had been, incredulous all over again. _Why?_

Then he put the gun away and set off with speed in the direction of his cabin.

[End of Chapter 7]


	10. First Mate, Part 1

__

A/N: This is the first part of Chapter 8 - the second should come soon. Not a whole lot to say about it, it's mostly introductory to Part 2. 

As usual, keep in mind that Rayman by whatever name still belongs to UbiSoft. Everyone else in this chapter is mine and mine alone. *evil laugh*

~~~~~~~~~~

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PIRANHA   
Chapter Eight Part One: First Mate

The energy gun cleared the way better than a police escort. He kept it ready, half-hidden in his big hand. It took a bit of trial and error to work out the right settings - the weakest one barely paused the big human pirates and had no effect at all on the robots - but he quickly worked up to a setting that would stun the humans. As for the robots, it was close to impossible to knock one unconscious - much like himself - but crumpling a limb or slamming them a foot deep into a bulkhead generally slowed them down. 

Without the gun he might not have made it through the ship at all. At that moment, right after the war-room debacle, the sight of him inspired pure blind rage. Struggling at times to get through mixed clumps of robots and humans surging at him, his main concern was to avoid having to switch the gun to full force and blast a lethal path for himself through the mob. Officers and underlings attacked on sight, pursued him or occasionally were even lying in wait as he passed by, despite the fact that he was following a complicated path through the ship that couldn't have been predicted. Still, although he couldn't avoid blowing off the occasional metal limb or singeing some bit of human meat, he didn't think he had quite killed anybody. He definitely didn't want to over-use that weapon - it would cause him far more trouble in the end. They weren't making it very easy to practice restraint, however.

For an hour or more he darted through the various levels of the ship. He did so much shooting that he began to keep a wary eye on the gun's power indicator - all he needed was to run out of juice in the middle of a firefight. None of his opponents so far carried an energy pistol like his, but bullet-shooting guns weren't uncommon, and a few of the pirates - specialized, heavily armoured warriors - did have their own built-in blast weapons. (Far too familiar to him from some ancient time, the sight of them aroused breathless rage. It was with hard effort that he withheld himself from exploding every one of them to ecstatic splinters. Their encounters certainly didn't do the ship's hallways any good.) 

Nevertheless, after a time, the level of attacks seemed to be dying down. The corridors were depopulating. Perhaps it was dinnertime... Or perhaps... Could they be getting discouraged, at least for the moment? 

Just to check, he stopped and stood looking around. The corridor was deserted. He lounged against a wall for a few minutes. Nothing. He strolled down the hall, the gun hidden in his jacket. Though once or twice he thought he heard agitated whispers, nobody appeared.

He stood for a moment in the middle of the corridor and looked around, hands on his hips. Then, grinning, he took a huge leap and landed at a run, heading again for his cabin. 

The sense of heavy oppression that had weighed on him ever since his first emergence, days ago, into the ship's halls fell away. Freedom! 

Well, freedom of a sort.

And a freedom still not without its dangers. In the area close to the old section, where his cabin was, perhaps the news about Piranha's blast gun hadn't arrived. He ran into a few minor standoffs, and then as he raced ahead, not wanting to waste the gun's remaining charge at all if he could help it, he picked up a ragged handful of pursuers.

As he passed out of the mostly metal construction of the rest of the ship and came to the wooden floors and walls and many doors of the old section of cabins, he gasped, his body went cold. He stumbled, had to roll and spring up again to keep ahead of his followers.

Frantically, he speeded his run, twisting and dodging through the maze of halls. Once, darting into a side corridor, he ran face-first into a small clump of pirates who looked just as startled to be bearing down on him as he was to confront them. That time, teeth bared, he blew the lot of them apart without a second thought. And ran on, panting.

The devastation in the corridors - someone had been here ahead of him. A lot of cabins had been broken into. There were smashed-in doors everywhere.

It took him more half an hour, desperately, to get away from the mob - to lead them down hall after hall, gathering them together, tantalizing them like a broken-winged bird, luring them away from his cabin, finally to dodge into one of the invaded rooms, leap up into the air vent, pull the grate closed after him, and crawl off through the duct system before anyone saw where he'd gone. 

He slid through the ducts as quickly as he could. With exploration and practice he'd learned to find his way around them with certainty most of the time. Forest dweller and long-distance traveller that he was by nature, he had a very acute sense of direction, and he was able to navigate even in those dark, featureless tunnels lit only here and there by faint grey light coming in from the vents. 

Through the walls he could occasionally hear a few pirates still rampaging confusedly through the corridors, looking for him.

It was with a cold thrill of apprehension that he approached his own cabin.

As he neared it, he slowed. The halls in that area seemed to be quiet. But he sensed something ahead. He took a deep breath, made sure he could reach the gun in his vest, and crept silently forward.

He came around a bend. And gasped. 

At the same moment, the duct reverberated with a scream that half-stunned him for a moment.

He grabbed her kicking foot. "Elly! Elly! Quiet! It's me!"

The invisible flailing thing in front of him froze up.

"Elly," he whispered. "It's okay, it's just me."

They were both silent and motionless. He listened intently. He couldn't hear anything outside the wall.

All he could hear was her rapid, panicked breathing. And his own.

He pushed a little closer to her. "Is anyone in the cabin?" he whispered.

Though she wasn't any taller than he was, her human form filled the duct much more tightly. She couldn't turn around. "They're gone now," she said. "They hung around for a long time, but they finally did leave. That was quite a while ago. I thought-" And stopped. He could feel her shaking.

"Let's go, then," he told her. 

They crawled forward. After a few moments the thin light coming from the room began to outline her shape in front of him.

It was even more awkward for her to get out of the vent headfirst than it had been for him that first time. He did his best to help keep her from falling. Finally she made it into the room, and he followed.

The door had been bashed in. The room was torn apart. Although - he checked quickly - they hadn't done a thorough search by any means, they hadn't found more than one or two of his hidden weapons. But the place was a mess. He turned to Elly. 

She was hunched a little, huddled in the middle of the room, glancing at him apprehensively.

"They didn't see you go into the vent, did they?" he asked.

"N-no. I don't think so. I got in as soon as I - heard them in the hallway, before they came to - to the door. You-you'd gone in there before, and I thought-"

"That was brilliant, Elly. I was kicking myself for not having warned you to do that. And you did it on your own!"

She glanced at him again. "You-you're not mad at me?"

He stared at her. "Mad? For doing the exact right thing?"

Her eyes kept flicking nervous glances at him as she crouched there. He came over to her. After a moment, he put a hand on her back.

"Calm down, kid." 

She hunched even more.

He glanced around the room again. He walked over to the broken door and looked out into the corridor. No one, at least for now. 

"Where to _put_ you," he muttered. "They've been through here already... Okay. That's it."

He turned back to her. "We haven't had time to set up other rooms or escape routes. Damn it, we've got to have several locations. And you need to be able to get through the ducts to them... Ah, hell, what a shambles! Okay, Elly - get some food if there's any salvageable, let's get you out of here. Hurry, come on."

They gathered a few supplies and poked out cautiously into the hallway. He led her to an intact room only a few doors away.

It was as dusty inside as their previous cabin had been. He got her in, locked the door, and turned to her as she stood there, head hanging.

"I can't stay," he said. "We're not going to have a moment's peace until I've stopped these idiots from attacking me, once and for all. I think you'll be safe here for the moment, they've had their fun. You look worn out. Why don't you get some sleep?"

She looked around helplessly. "What if they come back?"

There was the faintest hint of a smile around his eyes. "Oh, that. I don't think so." But seeing her face, he smiled a little more. "Elly. Such a worrier. Listen, I - Oh, wait a minute, hold on."

He ripped off his jacket and hat and flung them over a chair. He swept some of the dust off the table with his hand. He grabbed the bag of supplies out of her grip, dumped its contents on the table, and with the bag sped around the room brushing the dust off the table, the chairs and the galley counter. He set the water running in the sink to clean out the pipes. He raced over to the bed and yanked the covers off it, sending dust billowing.

Silently she came over to help him beat the mattress and turn it over.

Then he looked at her. That quiet little smile was in his eyes still. "Better?" he said. "Just try to rest a bit, Elly. You'll be all right. Now I've got to go." 

She looked at him soberly. She went to the galley and got a cup of water. She came back to where he was still slapping dust off himself, and offered him the cup.

He drank it, sighing with relief.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, taking back the cup.

"No time, can't eat now," he said. He was putting on his jacket and hat again. "Look," he added, "If anything happens - pull that vent trick again. And if you can't, for some reason-"

He pulled the blast gun out of his vest. He took the cup out of her hands and forced the gun into them.

"See here? It's an energy gun. This is off. This is full blast. You aim that at anything and press the trigger here and that thing will be gone, period. Got it? Be extra careful with this gadget, Elly, you could fry yourself."

She was gaping at it. "Where did you get this?"

"A gift. Hang onto it at all costs, no matter what! All right, now -"

She was pushing the gun back at him, pale. "I can't. I can't shoot anyone. You keep it."

He stopped moving. He focused those eyes, that abruptly intense, inscrutable, unyielding gaze, onto her until she wanted to turn into dust and blow away.

"Elly. If you have to, you _use_ it. Got that?" He looked at her fiercely. Then added, his black eyes bright with irony, "Shooting gets easier once you start, I promise."

She winced, holding the gun like a very live snake in her hands.

He headed for the door. On the way, though, he paused and turned back towards her. There was that faint trace of a smile again. 

"Oh, and uh ... If you're on speaking terms with any gods, put in a good word for me, will you? If you can." And turned again towards the door.

His hand was a fraction short of the opening button when something tackled him from behind, smacking him against the wall. Just barely, he held back his reflexive smash at the attacker.

For an instant, gasping, almost sobbing, she clung to him. Then let go and backed rapidly away, cringing like a dog that expects to be kicked. 

He straightened his hat, looking at her noncommittally.

"Elly," he said sombrely. "Don't grovel. Don't you know it makes people want to hit you?"

And he was gone. Dully, she locked the door behind him. 

She went over to the table to sit beside the gun, pressing her fists distractedly to her forehead; now and then glancing at the thing, as though the mere sight of it scorched her, from the corner of her eye.

***

He set out across the ship again, bounding through the halls in his best three-dimensional fashion - travelling, that is, by lamp or crate, off the floor whenever possible. Happily, he found he didn't rouse much attention; there were too many distractions. It was the ship's evening time by now, approaching curfew, and the lights in most parts of the ship were dimmed. The evening before a planetary landing and invasion, he would have expected the hallways to be deserted, everyone going to bed early; but in fact the opposite was the case. Maybe the problem was mass insomnia; it looked like there wasn't a pirate on board who hadn't made a sincere effort to drink himself into a stupor. In the process, however, they were all passing through a stage of trying with equal sincerity to help put each other to sleep, or preferably into a coma. Brawls were breaking out all over the ship, involving robots as well as humans. 

It amused him a little that he found himself actually shaking his head in dismay. If the pirates wanted to make things harder for themselves tomorrow, why should he care? And if they were more interested in plumbing the depths of a bottle and thumping each other than in pursuing Piranha, he could live with that too.

He sped through the corridors, bypassing the knots of battle. He went from section to section, through the mess halls, the kitchens, the sleeping decks - but avoided the deck after deck of long grey-white "coffins." He ran through the regular cargo holds, the food storage decks, he stuck his nose briefly into the officers' bar. All were busy with growling, swilling, disputing crew. But in all the mass of humanoid and robot bodies, there was no sign of Anaconda's two main henchmen, and indeed hardly any robot officers to be seen. They were so very thoroughly missing that he began to get worried.

He was going to find them if it meant checking every square foot of the ship. He doubted that they were in bed already - or wherever robot pirates went at night. But if it came down to plowing through all the officers' cabins one by one, he would do it.

***

Running down a dark side corridor, he heard a quiet, non-drinking-related sound. He halted instantly and held still, his old pistol in one hand, a knife in the other, his eyes darting at the shadows. A chunk of shadow detached itself and took a few steps toward him.

Piranha held up his gun. "Stop," he growled.

The moving hulk stopped. "You're Piranha, aren't you?" it said, in a hoarse human voice. "No fight."

Piranha's eyes were seeking motion all around him, he was alert to any sound, his body swayed slightly, ready to spring. "No fight? Very funny!"

The figure flung something that clanked onto the floor. "No weapon," it said. "I'm unarmed. I want to talk with you, Piranha."

Piranha's head lowered, he fixed his eyes hard on the figure. "Come forward where I can see you," he said, his voice still low and fierce. 

The figure shambled forward a few steps until the feeble yellow glow of a lamp fell directly onto it. It was a human pirate, tall and bulky, heavily scarred, with a wry grin that seemed to be a mark of damage to his face rather than the expression of any sort of feeling.

"Stop there," said Piranha. "Who are you?"

The pirate gave a real though scar-twisted grin. "Bubo. That's what I'm called. Been in this crew for five years now."

Piranha's watchfulness did not waver. "Five years? That's long survival for a human on this ship, I think." 

"Yep."

"What do you want?"

Bubo made to take a step forward, but halted at Piranha's glower and flashing knife. "Want to be on your side."

Piranha did not change his threatening stance. "My side? Meaning what exactly?"

"You ain't been here long, Piranha, but I think I see the day of the robots is ending. The humans will be the winning side."

Piranha's teeth showed in a bitter grin. "Winning side? I'm not human. And I've killed more than one human on this ship."

Bubo shrugged. "If you want to keep winning you'll need men. You have them if you want them."

Piranha lowered his weapons somewhat, straightened from his aggressive crouch. "No. I'm not starting a revolt."

"Not talking about revolt. Every officer has his gang. That's how it goes, Piranha. Blargh's after you, and probably Hacker too, and so are their followers. You deal with the leader, and the followers will likely come over to you."

"And whose follower are you, Bubo?" 

Bubo grinned again. "Yours."

Piranha said, coldly, "A deserter, then? Betraying your officer?"

"No. I never swore loyalty to any officer. Only to the Boss, of course, or I wouldn't be alive."

"So there are crew who don't belong to any gang?"

"Not many. It ain't easy, but I've stayed out of all that. But there are them that _would_ desert to you. Some of us don't like the robots so much."

Piranha looked at him in silence for a few moments. Then he said, "So. I guess I'll see in a while what these words mean in action. Bubo, take your weapon and get out of here."

Bubo bent to pick up his sword, glanced at Piranha with a grin that showed broken teeth, and scuttled off into the dark. Piranha continued to hold still, listening for any sound, for at least half a minute. Then he set off again at a run.

***

The situation was, not to overdramatize, desperate. The thought of having to go down to the planet to fight the population there, while still liable to heavy attack from the pirates, was more than unpleasant, it meant almost certain fatality. And in the morning, the invasion would begin. There were only a few hours left to do anything about it.

It was critical to deal with the First Mate. Piranha had searched the ship for over an hour, but there was no sign of Hacker, Blargh, or any of the other top officers. 

In exasperation, finally he ambushed a lower-ranking robot, alone in a passageway. Piranha held his gun aimed at the base of the robot's neck, where a number of crucial leads from the sensory apparatus came together just under the metal skin, going into the power supply in the chest. Even a smallish robot like this one was considerably stronger than he was, and he stayed out of reach; but the bronze-coloured pirate, eyes on the gun, didn't try to resist.

"Take me to Blargh," Piranha said. The robot looked at him startled.

"Take you _to_ him?" he said. "Wouldn't it save time just to let me kill you right here?"

Piranha's black eyes flashed. "Comedy routines?" he growled. "Take me there now or I'll shoot you and find someone more helpful."

The robot shrugged. "Fine," he said. "I've been curious to see what would actually happen if somebody tore you apart. Follow me."

He followed the robot warily through corridors, into doorways that led first through crowded and then through abandoned rooms, and back out into other empty halls. At last, after leading him into more and more remote and disused areas of the ship, a section of bare corridors and blank metallic bulkheads, the robot tapped the wall and made an abrupt turn, walking apparently right into the metal. Another of those technological doors? But this time, it seemed, the same metallic colour as the wall, quite invisible.

Piranha paused. These damned secret passageways! Advancing into an unknown, blindly, knife and gun ready, he leaped suddenly through the invisible entrance and froze, expecting mass attack. But there was only the sound of his guide's heavy feet clomping far ahead, echoing in the black distance. He hurried after, down the faintly lit passage.

The robot had stopped beside a regular metal sliding door. He gestured towards Piranha as he approached. 

"There," said the robot. "You go in first."

"All right," Piranha said, turning warily towards the door. And as the pirate flashed a small gun out of a pocket, Piranha whirled and shot him, knocking out his visual sensors, then instantly followed up with a dagger to the relatively vulnerable neck. Avoiding the oil slick that puddled just in front of the door, he tapped the entrance button and stepped into the room.

He was confronted with some thirty robot officers all frozen mid-motion, their faces staring in his direction. Evidently they had noticed the sound of the shot and the crash of the body, as well as the opening of the door. Most of them held cups in their hands, it looked like some sort of minor celebration had been going on. Piranha took a step into the room and peered impatiently through the crowd. 

"Blargh," he said. "Where's Blargh?"

After a moment, the huge, heavily dented and misshapen robot clumped forward. "The Boss's little _pet_ again," he said. "Thought you were at least smart enough not to show yourself in a place like this."

"I want to talk to you," said Piranha.

A thunderstorm of laughter erupted across the room. Piranha didn't stir. He waited until the last swirls and eddies of it subsided.

Blargh was standing with his fists on his hips, as though bracing himself against collapsing with hilarity. "'Talk?' One of those humanoid obsessions," he snorted. "It's going to be a lot less aggravating when you're gone, Piranha - I mean, Minnow."

"I think," Piranha said distinctly, "you might want to listen anyway, just once in your life. Since otherwise you might not have much life left."

"Making threats?" snapped Blargh, as the rest of the robots stirred, growling. "Not smart here, _Rayman._ No Boss here to protect you, _Rayman._ You're on your own right now, _Rayman._ New name or not, fancy clothes or not, blast guns or not, self-important little bloodbag - do you imagine all that can scare a room full of _us?"_

The acid repetition of that name did do something painful to his chest. But he didn't flinch.

"I'm giving you a chance," he said rapidly, "one chance, to come to an agreement with me. I'm here on the ship, whether you like it or not, whether it suits you or not; I'm here and I mean to stay. We can be enemies, fight to the death, Blargh; or we can be allies and both live, and you can have your gold and booze instead of the cold dark junkheap. It's all the same to me whichever you choose. I'm quite willing to let you live as long as I don't have to be watching you always for treachery. That goes for you, Blargh, and you, Hacker, and any one else who's listening. That's what I came to say; and I'm going to go now and let you think it over.

"We'll see later which ones of you _can _think."

He threw a quick glance around the room as if sweeping them all up in a net.

"Oh, and by the way," he added, holding up his empty hands, "we're even now - I don't have that blast gun." He stared at them all as they, in a suspended moment, stared back at him. Then, flashing a gesture that even robots knew to be rude, he grinned and darted out the door.

Nearing the invisible exit at the end of the passage, he heard behind him crashes, yells, and curses. The oil slick from the fallen robot. They hadn't wasted any time coming after him.

Waiting down the hall as the leaders emerged from the hidden door, he gave them just enough time to get some clue which way he was going, then took off.

Piranha sped through deck after deck of the ship at a relentless run, racing past clumps of groggily surprised men and robots, some of which came drunkenly after him if only because they saw something move. Seeing the officers in pursuit, other crew joined in. Well ahead of them all, Piranha continued to recruit pursuit, pausing near brawling or somnolent groups to attract their attention, occasionally swerving to kick a half-conscious pirate out of his stupor, circling back sometimes to taunt them a bit more if they didn't chase him. He jumped, stuck out his tongue, made impolite noises, waving his weaponless hands far above his head with a remarkably varied repertoire of insulting gestures. But he moved too fast for them to get very close, and he kept a sharp eye ahead of him so as not to be trapped. It was truly helpful that the crew was moving a lot slower than usual tonight.

Nevertheless, like dogs they were always ready to go after something that ran away. After a while, pirates were flooding into the pursuit from widely scattered areas around the ship, following each other, not always even knowing what the chase was about, but pleased at the break in pre-invasion routine. Eventually, a mob of hundreds streamed through the corridors, both robot and human, all converging on him.

[End of Part One]


	11. First Mate, Part 2

_A/N:  Well, like it or not, take it or leave it, whether it makes sense or not... this is it, I can't do any more with it!  Unfortunately, there is a lot of possibly confusing action and an unusual setting in this chapter.  I've described it as best I could, but if you can't figure out what I'm talking about, feel free to e-mail me, and I'll do my best to sort it out and clarify the story.  I just can't tell anymore if the descriptions of actions and scenery are understandable until I get some feedback from somebody._

_This is one case where a few pictures really could have saved me several thousand words!  *Sigh.*_

_Also, just for your information - the flaming corona I describe during the chapter is an actual phenomenon (more or less), known as St. Elmo's fire, which can occur under very heavily electrically charged conditions.  So don't think I'm making absolutely EVERYTHING up.  Just stretching a bit._

_Now, let us not forget that without UbiSoft Entertainment, creator and owner of the character formerly known as Rayman, this story could never have happened... but all of the other characters and the story itself are mine, © 2003 Rayfan.  I hope you enjoy it!_

**Chapter Eight Part Two:  First Mate**

            And at last, following each other, they caught up with him.  It was not in a good place.  They were at the top and back of the ship, in the huge cavernous bulge that housed the ship's 50-foot-high, automatic, mostly untended engines.  A few feet in from the metal ceiling and walls was a separate inner wall and ceiling, a lattice-like freestanding structure like a huge inverted basket woven of six-inch-wide metal strips, forming a loose weave with yard-wide gaps.  The metal lattice served to contain the heavy energy discharges that occasionally erupted from the engines, to catch them and funnel that excess, waste energy into batteries that converted it for use inside the ship.  The upper part of the room was rather dark, nearly all the lighting being some 40 feet below; and the blue-white, crackling discharges sparking across the metal weave like lightning would have been brightly visible, if anyone had bothered to look.

            The pirates entered the room; indeed, they kept entering it for quite a while; some four or five hundred of them, roughly a third the ship's crew, by the time they all arrived.  Even that many didn't come close to filling the enormous room.

            They roamed the area, hunting around and behind the huge, loudly hissing engines placed at intervals along the floor, each in its own heavily shielded bunker.  Because of the intensity of the discharge the engines gave off, it was dangerous to touch or even go within several feet of the bunkers, let alone the engines themselves; just to be in the room was asking for an accident.  If that freakish little upstart Piranha had been foolish enough to come in here, imagining no one would dare follow him, it was quite possible he was already dead, crouching stricken in some poorly-chosen hiding place.  

            But, just in case he wasn't, they hunted through the room with caution, grumbling, under the constant engine rumble, about the slight but deeply annoying vibration of the floor, cursing at the occasional painful static-electric snap.  Piranha couldn't be found.

            "He's not in here," growled Hacker, who was one of the last to arrive.  "He gave you the slip.  He's probably locked in his cabin right now having a good laugh at us all."

            "I saw him take out the guard and go in," protested a crewman.  "And the other door is still guarded.  He couldn't sneak out without being seen."

            The pirates were very testy by now, having been led on a wild goose chase through the ship for the better part of an hour and now having had to search the most unpleasant room on the ship.  Most were bored, ready to forget the pursuit altogether and satisfy themselves with guzzling a last bottle or two before falling into bed.

            "Yeah," said Blargh, finally convinced that the pipsqueak had ducked out somehow.  "Enough wasted time.  Tomorrow we have the invasion.  Everyone go –"

            "Hey!  What about me?" came a light, scornful, half-laughing voice.

            "Look up there!"

            And indeed, up there, near the ceiling, hanging on the outside of the woven metal lattice, facing down into the room, sticking his head in through one of the large open spaces in the weave, and weirdly illuminated by the flickering blue-white discharges, was the darkly grinning face of Piranha.

            A few crew members raised their weapons – but they were slapped down by better-educated comrades.  Firearms were strictly prohibited in this room.  An energy gun, taken into the wrong spot, could explode; and firing an energy beam in here, it would get absorbed by the metal web, could overload or unbalance the system, could conceivably even blow up an engine and damage the ship's hull.  Bullets were just as dangerous; they could easily ricochet into something sensitive and cause the same catastrophe.

            How Piranha could endure to hang up there amid the crackling forces of the metal web, they couldn't figure out.  The energy surges would short out a robot, a human could be badly shocked, even killed.  But Piranha seemed entirely at ease.

            "So," he called down to the hundreds of faces turned up towards him like a seething bed of grimy, tattered flowers, "You're probably wondering why I called you all here.  Ah, I've always wanted to say that."

            "Get down here!"  bellowed Blargh.  

            "You know," went on Piranha imperturbably, "You know, we may have to cancel the invasion tomorrow.  When the entire crew gets court-martialled for carrying weapons in the engine room, what's the usual method of handling?  You all team up to execute each other?"

            "Don't you dare fire in here!" screamed Hacker suddenly.  "No energy shots–"

            There was a silence; his too naked panic had left everyone a little nonplussed.

            Abruptly starting to move, Piranha set off sideways over the metal web with the effortlessness of a monkey swinging through a forest canopy, his hands and feet launching him across the bars securely and swiftly.  He came down a little lower on the web, entered through one of the gaps in the lattice, and launched himself into the room, jumping powerfully away from wall and falling down to a freestanding metal tower that was part of the power-funneling apparatus.  A blue bolt of static flashed out at him from the tower even before he touched it, and there was a snapping discharge as he grabbed onto the tower near its top.  An involuntary gasp went up from the human pirates below – that snap sounded painful at least.  But Piranha was laughing – as though, from the sound of it, he was being tickled.  He clambered rapidly down the tower and stepped onto an encircling platform halfway down, still far above their heads.  He glanced around the room and laughed again, a different laugh; there was scorn in it this time.

            "All right," he said.  They were still staring at him stunned.  A lot of the pirates were also glaring accusingly at Hacker and Blargh.  For days, all the talk had been of the feebleness, the helplessness, the pitiful squashability, of this little pet of Anaconda's.  About how all one needed to do was get a good grip on him, and he would instantly be misshapen clay.  That story, never very convincing, was getting less plausible by the minute.

            Piranha looked them over.  There was ironic amusement in his black eyes.

            "You know," he said casually, "I've been getting the idea that a few of you characters are trying to make an enemy of me.  An enemy!  I can't see why.  Do all new recruits get treated like this?  Me, I've got nothing against anybody.  Okay, yeah, the next person who calls me the Boss's _pet_ is going to get his head knocked off.  But other than that, I'm a pretty peaceable guy.  My idea of a good time does _not_ consist of running a sword through every big dope in sight because he wants to squash me into jelly."

            He paused.  They were growling, stirring restlessly.  He added, "I can think of several better things to do than trying to slaughter all my teammates.  That's right.  _Team-mates._  You're my teammates.  And I do know what teammates are.

            "Unlike some I've seen."  He fixed his eyes directly on Blargh.

            The rumbling of voices was increasing.  Piranha's clear voice rang out again with startling volume.  

            "Maybe you guys should take a look at who your _real_ enemies are.  Like officers who don't think human pirates are any better than slaves.  Who send you out to be killed by the dozens so they can get a bigger share of the booty.  Who have hidden caches of gold and weapons..."

            _"What?  You don't know that!"_ Blargh yelped.  

            Piranha smiled.  He'd found a few things in his travels through the ship's air ducts and into hidden places in the walls, and had made a good guess where they might have come from.

            Many of the human pirates, even a few of the robot pirates, were eyeing Blargh now with a cynical expression.  Looking a trifle panicky, Blargh seemed just about ready to whip out a gun even if it did blow up the ship.

            "Now, you, Blargh," Piranha continued, lazily.  "Blargh, the First Mate.  When there's plunder, you do see it gets shared out fairly, right?  Since the men keep you on as their leader, they must like the way you handle things."

            "What!  The _men!_  I'm First Mate because _the Boss _put me here!" roared Blargh.  "The men have nothing to do with it!  What the–"

            But a gradual perception of something about the room made his voice fall away.  Blargh looked around; and he felt, somehow, that what he was saying really wasn't the best thing to say just at that moment.  Even though at any time in the past he could have said it, and _had_ said it, with considerable success.  But it didn't seem to be working this time.  He paused; and his hand nervously gripped the butt of his gun.

            "The Boss – put me here," he muttered.  But not so anyone heard.

            Hacker, too, was looking around uneasily.  He knew very well that anything that Piranha might have implied about Blargh applied to him even more.  

            One of the crew – a human – barked, suddenly, as though surprising himself, "The Boss put _Piranha _here!  He's here for a reason!"

            "No he –" blurted out Blargh, in outrage.  But other sporadic shouts went up.

            "Piranha's never lost a fight –"

            "What _about_ fair shares of the booty–"

            "Blargh!  He's not so tough, _I_ could lick him–"

            "What happened to our shares from the invasion of Platicus!"

            "From Gandilon!"

            "From Teratera three _years_ ago!  I'm still waiting!"

            "There's never enough booty to go around!"

            "Except to the officers!"

            "I want my fair share!"

            "Where did you find it, Piranha?"

            Blargh and Hacker and the other robot officers looked at each other over the heads of the increasingly excited crew.  At the same time, scuffles were starting to break out here and there among the men – if for no other reason than to let off the tension.

            Piranha stepped forward hastily.

            "Blargh!" he shouted.  "How about it?"

            Blargh glared up at him with a profound suspicion that he was about to be entrapped again.  "How about what?"

            "How about declaring a truce, and let's work together?"

            Blargh pulled himself up to his full, very considerable height.  "Work together?  _I'm_ First Mate.  You're nothing.  Nothing _but _the Boss's pet.  I'm his right-hand man, and Hacker's the left.  He can only have two hands.  So you're nothing – unless you're his _tail."_

            His devastating wit, however, didn't have the desired effect.  Before Piranha could open his mouth again, another man jumped up and yelled, "Then Challenge!"

            Blargh, if a robot could go pale, went pale.  Piranha held still.  The word swept instantly through the crew like a wave, hitting the walls and sweeping back again.   "Challenge!  Challenge!"  The word began to form into an eager chant.

            The pirate in the crowd who had spoken grinned up at Piranha.  It was the man he had met earlier, Bubo.  Piranha glanced at him briefly, not smiling.  He watched the crowd, and Blargh, and Hacker, closely.

            More scuffles were breaking out.  Fists and daggers and some half-full bottles were being waved around.  The chant of "Challenge!" was getting more and more insistent. 

            Piranha stood up very straight.  He threw up his hands and gave a high-pitched yell that cut instantly through the chaos.  However, the utter silence that followed – except for the deep heavy throbbing of the engines – was caused less by his voice than by the fact that a moment later, he was suddenly on fire.  Tall, rapidly flickering, hissing blue-white flames shot up from his head and each upraised hand – though his clothes and skin showed no signs of actually being burnt.  The feathers on his hat, the loose sides of his coat, even the ruffles of his shirt, all stood stiffly away from his body, a few sparks jumped about the daggers lodged in his vest, and a bluish, crackling, incandescent halo flared around him that caused some of the more impressionable pirates to go a little weak in the knees. 

            He held still until the flames and the glow subsided – which took a while.  Then, slapping the crackling residual charge away, he stepped forward to the edge of the platform.  The pirates were staring up at him openmouthed.   He looked down at them.  They saw him smile.

            "So, Challenge, then?" he said.  His voice mild, even playful.

            Blargh, abruptly recovering his dropped jaw, yelled, "No!  _No!_  You have no right–"

            Piranha stretched himself up to a much taller height, spread his hands, in their big, stiff-sleeved gloves, out further from his body, opened his large eyes very wide, leaned forward a little without bending his body, his big coat swinging open.  He seemed doubled in size.  Deliberately, he said, "Blargh.  I challenge you."

            For an instant Blargh fumbled, seemed about to run.  Then he gathered himself together and faced Piranha grimly.  

            _"You_ challenge, do you, magic toy?  Then _I _pick the weapons:  _None.  _Bare hands.  And no cheating with energy bolts!"

            Piranha, still holding himself very tall, let out a short laugh with palpable contempt.  "No problem," he said.  

            "And it will be held–" Blargh was saying, but Piranha cut him off.

            "Right here, right now," he snapped. "Everyone move back, give us some space.  Delays only bring treachery, right Blargh?  Right here, right now."

            A human pirate ran up to Blargh and seized the gun from his belt.  "Bare hands," he said.  Two other men pulled other weapons off the first mate and darted away.  Bleakly, he watched them go.  He turned back to Piranha.  After all, he was twice the little faker's size.  And he was a robot.  What humanoid could beat a robot in hand-to-hand combat? 

            All the same, seeing the figure up above him he had a flash of recall, of once seeing something like that shape leaping off of vast heights and sending bolts of lightning from its hands as it descended.  He clenched his fists.

            "We fight on the deck!" he yelled.  "Get down here!"

            Piranha smiled, a very dark twisted smile, and lunged off his tower.  He was a good twenty-five feet up, and he dived headfirst straight for Blargh.  Crewmen scattered, crowding out of the way.  Blargh, though a little confused by so many bodies rushing in all directions, held his ground.  And he slipped his fingers into a pocket inside his shirt as the black figure shot like a lance straight towards him.

            Piranha saw the glint of the knife before he hit, and grinned.  His big gloved hands grabbed the pirate's head, the force of his momentum bowling them over backwards.  A groaning creak of bending metal was heard along with Blargh's yell as his neck snapped back.  The huge body hit the floor with jarring force, bouncing a couple of times, Piranha bouncing too into a somersault over Blargh's head.  

            Piranha rolled out of reach, then whirled and darted in again before his heavy opponent had managed to push himself up.  He reached for Blargh's collar, ripped hard at his shirt, exposing the big metal chest plate that covered the power source and crucial circuitry.  He danced away again.  The heavy cloth of his own black coat was ripped across the chest where the knife had caught him, hitting the vest and the armour of daggers underneath.  But if his skin had been touched, he gave no sign.

            The crowd, having recovered its voice, set up a deafening racket of howls and hoots of support and execration.  There was booing as some spotted the knife and the slashed jacket.  But, Piranha thought, what difference did a knife make?  Just one more piece of metal.

            The opponents circled, feinted back and forth.  Blargh was enormous, shambling, stolid, mountainous, his huge arms and hands and feet ready to crush like an avalanche.  He moved in short bursts, those massive clublike arms, about the size of Piranha's whole body, swinging with killing force.  He could move fast straight ahead, but turning was another matter.  He had so much momentum and weight that it was all he could do to stop his own charge.

            Piranha, dodging and dancing, swerving in and out, swaying in place then darting aside in unpredictable directions at the last moment of Blargh's rush, was a ceaselessly moving, maddening target.  His black eyes were bright, hot, full of fury and excitement – he hadn't looked this alive since arriving on the ship.  His teeth showed in a smiling snarl.  And now and then, seeing an opening, he shot forward and tore off a piece of cloth from Blargh's chest, kicked looser an exposed, untended screw, unbalanced his enemy in the effort to twist after him, and swept back to take advantage of the moment by launching himself with surprising power to smash up with both fists under Blargh's jaw, staggering the big robot backwards as the metal neck creaked with another fractional bend.  Then to flash away before the metal arms could touch him.  

            He surged up and, feinting to the left, leaped and kicked the knife out of Blargh's right hand, so that it clattered across the floor and someone else pounced on it.  Then, as Blargh threw himself at him, he lurched the other way, jumped uncannily high and fast (the pirates remembered now how extraordinarily high he could leap), and flipping in the air smashed both feet against Blargh's jaw, twisting the robot's neck another notch further back, so that more and more he had to contort himself absurdly just to keep his eyes on that evil little devil of an enemy.

            Blargh managed to block another incoming kick, flinging Piranha away, but the whirling black form righted itself like a cat and landed on both feet, surging forward instantly.  A black boot heel connected again with the robot's hand; a couple of fingers bent back.  Blargh gave an outraged yell.  Meanwhile, Piranha leaped again and smashed his feet against the chest plate, launching himself away in the process.  Blargh staggered back, and Piranha was at him, grabbing a warped corner of the plate and giving a tremendous yank that threw the gigantic pirate off balance; he spun around and dropped to his knees, and Piranha lunged at him, landed sideways against his head with both feet.  There was a loud screech and crack as metal bent and straps and connectors snapped.  Blargh windmilled his fists but the target was gone.  And Piranha repeated the attack from behind, smashing against the pirate's back-bent head with both feet again.  The head cracked forward with a horrifying suddenness.  Blargh got up, staggering, his head wobbling crazily on his neck, a continuous howl emerging from wherever it was his voice came from.  Some snaps and sparks of shorting wires buzzed at his neck.

            The noise in the room by now was unearthly.  Cheers, boos, hoots, and laughter drowned out the noise of the engines.  Quick bets were being made among the spectators. Hacker had already quietly slipped out the door.  The humans in the crew were screaming ecstatically, yelling every time a fist or foot connected.  More and more, their yells tended to be cheers when the blow came from Piranha, and boos on the few occasions when Blargh managed to land one.  

            The robots were more subdued, staring in horror at a sight they knew was impossible.  No creature of flesh could beat a robot without a weapon.  But then, after seeing him living among the lightning, they were not very sure that Piranha had anything to do with flesh at all.  But, although so far things weren't going the way they should, the fight was by no means over yet.

            Doggedly, it went on.  Piranha raced back and forth, seizing every tiny opportunity to cause some damage, aiming again and again for the chest plate, for the fasteners that protruded from it, for Blargh's much-abused wobbling head, and relying on sheer speed to evade those swinging arms.  Several times, when Blargh's blows did glancingly connect, Piranha was sent spinning into the crowd.  It flung him back again into the fight so that he staggered, once or twice fell, but rolled with the fall and leapt back up.  And he leapt literally into the air, spread-eagling himself in midair in a fierce display, his hands and feet far from his body, his savage eyes wide and white teeth bared, his heavy black coat swirling widely around him so that he appeared to expand, to blow up into something immense, a night-swept demon, in the instant before he struck.  It was enough to unnerve even a robot.  But Blargh still had full use of his arms.

            One time he managed to grab Piranha's foot as he kicked, and yank the small black body up as easily as if it were made of straw.  The crowd gasped.  But Piranha, stretching as no human could have, slammed his other foot hard against Blargh's badly battered chest, and propelled himself and the robot in opposite directions.  He nearly lost a boot in the process, but broke the grip on him.  Landing on his feet, as Blargh was struggling to regain his balance, Piranha with all his strength flung himself bodily against the robot, hitting, light as he was, like a cannonball, and sending Blargh reeling across the floor.  He smashed up against one of the huge concrete engine casings.  Hit by a jolt of energy as well as concrete, Blargh gave a metallic screech that might have been pure clashing machinery.  He toppled over, away from the casing.  For a moment, he was still, his eyes dimmed; then, in an apparent reboot, the red glow came back into them.  Creaking, his enormous body lurched up, his heavy feet staggered forward, and the fight continued. 

            Though his attack didn't let up, Piranha was starting to tire.  It was getting a little harder to dart in and out with such precision and such wraithlike speed.  Blargh's monumental fists began to connect more often, just barely, with glancing blows that threw both the combatants off their stroke.  And sometimes connected hard enough to sprawl Piranha onto his back or side; though no matter how quickly Blargh dived at him, he always managed to gather himself together and spring or roll away.  But the one time Blargh really solidly hit him came close to ending the fight right there.

            Piranha was coming in fast, hands first this time, in a lunge aiming once again for the robot's chin.  He had miscalculated for once.  A metal fist caught him full on the left side of the head.  The impact threw him hard to the right, his body arching back stiffly, and he crashed onto his back and spun across the floor.  

            The crowd scattered back to avoid contact with a possible corpse.  A blow like that could smash a man's skull.  Piranha's body lay stark, unbreathing, for an instant; then twitched, and he rolled quickly up into a crouch, perching unsteadily on his toes and fingers.

            He was up, but clutched at the floor gasping, nauseated and sickened, deafened by a screeching buzz in his head, his vision blurring, the room around him reeling, blackness washing over him like a tsunami.  If his opponent had been moving a little faster, that would have been it.  

            But Blargh, not too agile at the best of times, was having difficulties with his own vision and motor control; his head wobbling erratically, his circuitry misfiring, he was confusedly finding himself lurching off about 30 degrees to the left of where he meant to go.  He went swinging those huge fists with all his force, to the point of throwing himself off balance, at enemies that weren't there, or at least weren't Piranha – sending the crowd once more scrambling back on itself to get away.  Meanwhile, Piranha had a moment to gasp in some breath, steady himself, realize again where he was, and force his trembling body to its feet.

            Near him on the floor he spotted his wide black hat, long ago fallen from his head.  He snatched it up, flung it spinning in front of Blargh's face.  The already disoriented Blargh swung automatically at it, stumbling clumsily; and Piranha made another dive.  One more time he snatched the loose, kinked-up lower corner of the chest plate, thrust his feet against Blargh, and with an awful wrench that sent a shock of pain throughout his own body, finally ripped the metal away from most of its remaining connections.  Then, landing on the floor, he lunged again and smashed up at the plate from below.  It bent sharply back, still attached across its top, just below the level of Blargh's neck.  The robot, staggering backwards, found his view blocked by his own skin.  As he started to raise his arms to pound the metal plate back down, Piranha darted in once more.  His big hands thrust deep into Blargh's open chest, grabbed hold of whatever they could, and, again slamming his feet against Blargh's solid abdomen, he shoved himself away with all his strength.

            There was a loud series of cracks, electrical snaps, a long buzz, a smell of burning; spurts of oily liquid sprayed out from broken connections.  The massive body took one step, then froze up, tilted.  Blargh teetered hovering for a moment, as though struggling to comprehend his own defeat; then keeled straight over, slowly, like a massive felled tree.

            At the same time, Piranha was picking himself up from the floor where his own momentum had thrown him.  He watched Blargh fall, watched the red light of his eyes go grey, watched the last few stray crackles of the wiring.  There was no motion.

            Then he straightened himself.  He was still breathing hard and fast, not yet able to speak.  His gaze moved rapidly around the room.  Hacker, he noted, seemed to be missing.

            A hundred robot faces were staring blankly at him or at the toppled Blargh.  They couldn't assimilate what they'd seen any better than Blargh could.  A few hundred human faces were staring too.  Seeing that chest plate ripped off by main force, and then seeing Blargh fall, with such finality, all so abruptly, had turned their enthusiasm into frozen shock.  Much as they'd been excited by the fight, much as they enjoyed the sight of an unarmed humanoid holding his own and even scoring against a robot, not many of them had believed that Piranha could win.  Flatly, it wasn't possible.  Piranha saw their eyes turn towards him with expressions ranging from hostility to disbelief to awed respect to ... possibly, hope?  A low, uneasy mutter began.

            Still panting a little, he faced the crowd steadily, standing very straight.

            The murmur in the room was getting louder.  The robots were muttering among themselves too, sending increasingly fierce glares in Piranha's direction.  

            If he didn't do something, somebody else might make a very unhelpful decision.  He took a step forward.  "Well," he said, calmly.  "That's that.  Unless there are others?"

            At that, a distinctive-looking robot stepped forward from the crowd.  He was one Piranha had noticed before in the company of Blargh, tall, silver-coloured, and broad-shouldered – though, compared to the massive Blargh, relatively slight.  He was battle-dented like all the robots, but unlike most of them, polished to a shine, clear of the usual scratches, rust and old oil; and again unlike most of them, wearing nothing but a rank insignia on his shoulder.  He stood a little apart from the others, looking steadily at Piranha.

            Piranha took a deep breath.  He clenched his aching fists.  His eyes, bright, black, fierce, met the robot's without a flicker.

            The silver robot eyed him for a moment.  Then he turned and strode quickly over to the fallen Blargh.  He crouched down, rummaging among the tattered shreds of Blargh's shirt, and pulled out the large oval-shaped insignia of the First Mate.  

            Piranha held his breath.  A battle now over that silver button?  Should he have grabbed it himself?  He hadn't even thought about it.

            The robot straightened up and turned towards Piranha.  For a long time he simply looked at him.  As he stood there, the excited muttering of the human pirates died away, the robots stopped looking at each other; the whole room's attention came to rest on the smooth metal disc in the robot's hand.  In the silence, the ponderous throbbing, crackling, and hissing of the engines was overwhelming.

            Then the robot walked across the empty floor where the fight had just taken place, towards the small, straight black figure.  Eyes on him, Piranha didn't stir.  Without a word or gesture, the robot walked directly up to him and stopped an arm's length away, towering over him. 

            Then he dropped to one knee, putting their faces more on a level.  Piranha held motionless as the long silver arm slowly reached forward and hooked the insignia onto his shirt.  It was so large on him that the robot placed it in the center of the chest, nesting it like an egg in the satiny ruffles.  Then he inclined his head slightly.  His face was smooth, a solid silver mask with only a slight suggestion of humanoid features, incapable of expression; his oval eyes glowed a deep blue.  His voice seemed to come from somewhere just below his head. 

            "Tulik, First War Lieutenant.  Piranha:  You have won First Mate."

            Piranha looked at him without expression.  He glanced around the room.  Every pirate, human or robot, was standing still, staring at the insignia on his chest; over four hundred frozen, scarcely breathing bodies.  (Although some of the robot's shocked stares were now directed at Tulik rather than Piranha.)  Every mind in the room seemed suspended, undecided.

            Then he knew what to do.  He smiled. 

            At his dark, ironic smile, a stir went through the crowd.  Piranha smiled more broadly, his teeth showing.  He looked directly at the pirates, his eyes scanning them rapidly.  He spotted the human pirate who'd spoken to him before – Bubo.  He grinned.  Then, as though breaking out of the ice that had frozen the whole room, he jumped back, flinging his hands out.

            "Hey!" he shouted.  "Pirates!"  

            From a standstill, Piranha made one of his tremendous leaps into the air with a backward flip, landing with a hand upraised, holding the silver insignia. "Crew of the _Insurrection!_  Can you see this?" he yelled.

            There was a brief silence.  Then, "Yes!" shouted a voice – perhaps Bubo's.

            Mutters and then shouts of "Yes!" and more of "No!" began to scatter through the crowd.

            "No?  All right then!"  Piranha leaped again, shoving the insignia into a tight pocket of his coat, came down on his hands in a cartwheel, then soared into the air once more, landing ten feet up the ladder of the electrical tower he'd jumped off of earlier; he grabbed on with his hands only, swung his boots over his head to hook the rungs above him, rapidly yanked himself up and then scrambled the rest of the way to the high platform.  He jumped forward to its edge and again held out the metal disc, sparks glinting off it, for all to see.  

            "Pirates!"  cried Piranha.  "You see it now?"

            More voices were shouting now, more willingly, with renewing excitement.  "Yes!"

            "What is it?"

            "First Mate!" cried many scattered voices.

            "Who won the fight?  Me, or Blargh?" 

            There were some hesitations, but the shout went up from many with enthusiasm.  "Piranha!"  More joined in.  "Piranha!  Piranha beat Blargh!  Piranha beat Blargh!"  Whatever else they thought of him, there was no disputing that, as they stared at the bright trinket held out by the exotic figure high on the tower.  

            The disorganized yells fell into a chant.  "Piranha beat Blargh!  Piranha beat Blargh!  Piranha beat Blargh!"  The human pirates, much to the discomfort of the robot officers, were clearly enjoying themselves.

            _"So whose is this?"_ cried Piranha.  He held the medallion, crackling and sizzling as discharges hit it, way up over his head.  He stared down at them all, his bared teeth glinting, his eyes enormous, glittering, savage.  Even at such a distance, their intensity was startling.

            "Yours!  Piranha!  Piranha!" came the shouts from the deck.  There were those who said nothing, those who growled dissent, a few even drunkenly yelled "Blargh!" –  but the chant was overwhelming now.  _"Piranha beat Blargh! Piranha beat Blargh!"_  The crew, most of the humans and even a few lower-ranking robots, gleefully shook their fists in time with the chant, yelled, hit each other in excitement.

            "Are you _sure?"_ came the shout from the tower.

            "Piranha!" howled the men.

            "Then _you say_ I should wear this?"

            "Piranha beat Blargh!  Piranha's First Mate!"

            He held still a moment longer, staring down at them all, a fierce grin on his face.  Then, deliberately, he hooked the insignia back on his chest.

            A tremendous cheer went up this time.  "Piranha!  First Mate!"  Now with a sudden huge surge of excitement – somehow _they_ had chosen their own leader.  And at this moment he was looking like something extraordinary.

            High above their heads, Piranha made another leap and flip in the air, the electric-like charge on the tower sending his wide black coat flaring around him, his bright golden hair standing up, a visible incandescence crackling over his body.  He landed at the edge of the platform, thrust his fists high, let out a triumphant yell.  The crew gave themselves completely over to the moment now, alternately hugging and slugging one another, pouring rum on each other's heads, bellowing with delight.  They hadn't had this much entertainment in ages.

            The tall silver robot, Tulik, was still standing quietly where he had put the insignia on Piranha.  He was looking up at the defeater of Blargh with his expressionless face, his head tilted slightly.  Piranha, glancing briefly at him, wondered if that was a good or a bad sign.

            Then, before the excitement of the crowd could rocket completely out of control, Piranha again flung up his hands.

            "Pirates!" he yelled. 

            They cheered.

            "Invasion tomorrow!  Right?"

            The cheer quadrupled. 

            "Are we ready?" 

            Of course they were.  They laughed, hooted, shook their fists in the air.

            "There's just one small thing missing..."

            They paused, staring up at him – were they supposed to cheer at that?

            He grinned down at them.  "Where's _Hacker?"_

            A laugh went up.

            "Don't tell me he – No, he didn't run _away?"_

            A bigger laugh.  Hacker's habits were well known.

            "How can we invade without the Strategy Chief?  How will we know what to do?"

            An even bigger laugh this time.  Piranha smiled.

            "What do you think, should we find him?  Ask him for help?"

            Cries of scorn and some aggressive hooting.

            "I'd like to have a little – human _talk_ with him... D'you think I should?"

            Cheers again.  "Talk to him like you talked to Blargh!"

            Piranha jumped off the platform, grabbed onto it with one hand as he dropped, and swung there over their heads, looking off towards the exit.  "But where could he be hiding?"

            A chaos of answers and laughter exploded.  "In his cabin!" "In the bar!"  "Squealing to the Boss!" "Maybe he jumped ship!"

            He looked down at them, grinning, still hanging on by one hand.  He raised the other in a comical little shrug.  "What do you think, should we _all _go have a talk with him?"

            There was a loud, astonished inhalation from many throats; and then an explosion of cheers and hoots.  The outrageous idea of crewmembers tackling a senior robot officer seemed to have some appeal.

            Piranha pointed at the exit.  "Let's go find him!"

            A cheer went up again.  The men stood slapping each other on the back, chanting his name, waving weapons in the air, impatient for him to come down.  Piranha looked over the crowd.  Yes, there were small groups of men and robots who were muttering uneasily together, wary of the mass of enthusiasm around them; but it wasn't that many, and they obviously didn't want to attract the wrath of the majority.

            Dangling there, he took a deep breath.  There was no more doubt now.  The battle was over.  _The battle was over!_

            How much more war might still be coming, he didn't yet know; but – in the past half hour he had apparently gone from outcast, invader, targeted enemy, to at least the momentary general of an army.  

            He felt a little dizzy, a little sick.  The blow to his head?  The accumulated overdose of energy discharges?  Or just the giddiness that comes when a universe up-ends itself.

            Instinctively about to drop off the platform and helicopter to the ground, he halted himself with a brief shudder.  He swung back onto the platform instead, and slid quickly down the ladder.  Men came up to him as he arrived at the floor.  Though some seemed a bit disconcerted – up close, he was unexpectedly small – their eyes still gleamed with excitement.

            One summed up what was evidently on all their minds.  "A _human_ First Mate," he said.  "And we're going to _keep_ it that way," he added, glaring.  Others growled in agreement.

            Piranha did not select this moment to argue about trifles, such as whether or not he was human.

            "We need to finish this business with Hacker," he said.

            "That metal bastard!  He won't stand a chance if we all gang up on him!" said one of the men excitedly.  It seemed to be a new idea.  Other men were gathering around, barking agreement.  _"None_ of the robots would stand a chance if we _all_ ganged up on them!"  "There's a lot more of us now!"  "Less of them!"  "We could–"

            Piranha backed up from the crowd, giving himself some room.  His black eyes savage, he flung his fists into the air.  _"Wait a minute,"_ he bellowed.

            The growing agitation of the men stilled a little as they looked at him.  He glared at them all ferociously.

            "I don't give a _damn_ who's metal and who isn't," he barked.  "All I want is to get the cheats and cowards out of the way.  Now _Hacker–_"

            Snorts of laughter from the men.  "Hacker?  He tells great tales of battle, but nobody's ever seen him in one!"  "He's so crooked, when counting his gold he even cheats himself!"

            Piranha grinned at them fiercely.  "How about seeing if he can cheat death this time?"

            The men grinned too, but there was still a feeling of agitation, of an unrest that had been suppressed too long suddenly finding its way to the surface.  Piranha added, "And then tomorrow –"

            "Tomorrow, we'll see how much more justice we get from Piranha than from Blargh and Hacker!" roared another voice.  Piranha swivelled to look.  It was Bubo again.  He sent Piranha a wide grin, then faced his fellow pirates.  "We all know the booty is mostly Anaconda's, but we'll see how much more of our true share comes to us!  That's what matters, ain't it?  We don't need to get ourselves slaughtered fighting officers, we just need fair play and justice!  Ain't I right?"

            There were some cheers and some growls.  

            "Find me Hacker!  I'll negotiate with him!"  Piranha laughed, pulling back his coat to show a large dagger. 

            "Come on!" Bubo cried, jumping towards the exit.  "Let's have some fun with that tin-plated slop bucket!"  And the men, laughing, set off after him. 

            Bubo glanced back at Piranha for a moment as he was heading towards the door.  Piranha bowed gravely in his direction.

            As he walked towards his hat to pick it up, a few of the remaining men elbowed each other to be the first to grab it off the floor and hand it to him.  He accepted it, grinning at them darkly; pointed at the door.  "Don't miss your chance," he said.  They ran after the others.

            Aside from the last of the men crowding to get out the door, there was now only a handful of robots left, top officers, all standing together in a tight group gaping at Piranha.  A little apart from them stood Tulik, still in the same place as before.  Piranha settled the hat on his head and turned to face him.

            He took a deep breath.  He was feeling a trifle ill yet from the discharges on the grid and the tower; although he could tolerate a great deal of energy, he'd definitely had more than he wanted.  And he was becoming more aware now of how much his body ached from the blows and heavy strain of the fight, not to mention an annoying, itching pain across his chest.  He shook it off.__

            "Tulik," he said, "You called yourself the First War Lieutenant."

            Tulik inclined his head slightly.  "I was Blargh's lieutenant.  Now perhaps I am to be yours."

            Piranha noticed a slight stir among the other robot officers at that.  They were watching the scene very closely.

            Tulik added, "You were incredibly lucky that energy pistol you got hold of didn't explode up there on the grid."

            Piranha smiled coldly.  "Would _you_ bring an energy gun into this room?"

            Tulik said, "You do have one, don't you?  At least that is the rumor going around the ship."

            Piranha said, calmly, "I have one, yes."

            "You do.  So... if you wanted to kill the First Mate, why didn't you just ambush him?"

            Piranha couldn't repress a laugh.  "Tulik, first you proclaim me First Mate and then you insult me?  As if I wasn't hated enough already – and then you expect me to do something stupid like that and unite every one of his men to avenge him!  And who said I _wanted_ to kill Blargh?  What I wanted was to be allowed to be part of the crew!  He wouldn't let me do anything but fight.  And now, after all that, you tell me I'm First Mate...  My brain is turning inside out trying to keep up with these flip-flops!"

            He looked at Tulik, wondering what was going on behind those featureless eyes, wondering if the expressionless robot knew how to read a living face.  There was a moment of silence. 

            "Did I hear you say," went on Tulik, abruptly, "that you didn't care who was metal and who was human?  Did you mean that you would treat them all the same way?"

            "I said something like that, didn't I," said Piranha.  "Yes, I stand by that."

            "Even," Tulik went on, "after what happened on that planet you came from? As I recall, the humans couldn't handle it at all, and it was almost entirely a force of robots who were sent to subdue that target.  You fought a lot of robots there, defending your world."

            Piranha drew back a little and looked at him coldly.  "Yes," he said.  "I stand by what I said."

            "Why?" asked the robot.

            Piranha shook his head impatiently.  "How do you explain something that's too obvious for words?" he said.  "We have no choice but to work together.  We can't have factions."

            He was very conscious of the other robot officers watching and listening.  It occurred to him that perhaps the silver robot was thinking of them too.

            "Factions," said Tulik.  His rather flat, coarse metallic voice could have had a trace of amusement in it.  "There have always been factions.  That's what powers the ship, Piranha." 

            Piranha smiled grimly.  "No doubt you're right, Tulik.  And I should respect that," he said.  "If this crew had been united, if the officers hadn't been more preoccupied with infighting than with conquering – I and my planet would now be dust."  He paused.  "My problem is, I'm kind of limited.  I don't know any other way to function than to have everyone pulling together."  He gave Tulik a slight, wry smile, then turned to leave.

            Before he'd taken a step, however, Tulik spoke again.  

            "Piranha.  Sir."

            Piranha turned back and looked up at him inquiringly.

            Tulik paused.  Then he inclined his head and put a hand on his chest.  "You have my allegiance," he said.  "I will support you as First Mate."

            Piranha was silent, eyeing him.  Then, still silent, he repeated Tulik's gesture exactly.  

            After a moment, he said, in a low voice that barely carried over the engine noise, "How much does this nice little badge really mean?"

            Tulik tilted his head a little, gazing at him steadily.  He also spoke too quietly for the others to hear.  "I think you know that's pretty much up to you."

            Piranha said, still quietly, "I don't really know anything."

            Tulik replied, under the loud hissing of the engines, "Oh, yes... Yes you do, Piranha."  He took a step back and spoke in a normal tone.  "Rumors will be flying.  Go see the Boss, Piranha.  Before someone else does." 

            Piranha smiled.  "I do know that much." 

            Again he repeated Tulik's gesture.  Then, turning to the rest of the robot officers, he grinned and gave them a casual salute, more of a wave of the hand.

            Then he set off at a run across the now-empty floor.  After a minute, he reached the exit, sweeping the massive door wide open.  It slammed shut behind him with a crash that shook the floor even over the vibration of the engines.

            Tulik had watched him go.  Now he turned to face the robot eyes all glaring at him.

            "Did you hear his words, back in the retreat room?" he said to them.  "'Which ones of you _can_ think?'  _Think_ about that – can't you?"

[End of Chapter 8]


	12. Bad Behaviour, Part 1

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1_Well, here after a horrible delay is the next chapter, part 1 and 2.  Hope it was worth the wait... I'm afraid I haven't much time to write these days.  _

_Remember as always that this is PG-13 and there's the occasional rough spot, but nothing too offensive I hope.  _

_Rayman © UbiSoft Ent. Story © Rayfan, also known as me._

**PIRANHA**

**Chapter Nine Part One:  Bad Behaviour**

            Anxious as he was to get back to his cabin, uneasy though he was about Elly, Piranha was heading at a fast run for the war room.

            First Mate!  The heavy metal insignia thumped against his chest as he ran, and he kept glancing down at it with disbelief.  How had that happened?  

            Perhaps it hadn't happened at all.  Until this First Mate business was confirmed by Anaconda, Piranha had no confidence in a mere badge.  Even the robot Tulik who'd put it on him had seemed to have some reservations, and the rest of the officers had looked appalled.

            Keeping an eye out for possible ambushes – he needed to get that blast gun back! – he sped past the scattered robots, human pirates, and slaves still out, late though it was, in the corridors.  

            In the short time since the fight with Blargh, some sort of news seemed already to have rippled through the ship.  As he passed, robots eyed him with an odd, bemused air.  Human crew frankly stared; and as he ran he saw the occasional surreptitous thumbs-up or even an excited upraised fist.  He returned the gestures, though with some misgivings.  What was he being sucked into?

            And there was also the moment when rounding a corner, he ran almost onto the point of a sword, and there was a brief battle.  The interesting thing was that as he was attacked by three men – one of them looked slightly familiar, either Blargh's or Hacker's man – four other men, complete strangers, joined in a moment later.  On Piranha's side.  That brought the scuffle to a quick end, the attackers fleeing.

            He looked at his defenders.  "You like to come along?" he asked.  They grinned.

            So he ran on, now accompanied by an informal bodyguard.  He had to slow down for them, evidently pirates, however tough, didn't do a lot of long-distance running.  And he still met the same mostly unreadable, but attentive stares from the robots, the same muted interest from the human pirates.  

            Slaves, of course, out on errands, had more urgent things on their minds than the vagaries of officers' power struggles, and paid him no attention.

            As he approached the war room through the wide, burnished metal corridors, he slowed to a walk.  This area was clear of the crates and boxes stacked in most other sections of the ship, and the corridors were longer and straighter.  There was nowhere to conceal an ambush, and nowhere to dodge from an attack.  So it was even more obvious that the place was unusually populated, especially for this late at night.  There were a lot of pirates here, both men and robots, hanging quietly around in small groups.  They didn't stir, few of them even talked among themselves, but he felt their eyes on him as he strode past.  Again he thought of his energy gun.  Sometimes he met those eyes directly, as if daring them to threaten him.  But they only watched, impassively.

            At least no one was trying to stop him from seeing Anaconda.  That might be a good sign.

            He paused in front of the war room door.  He looked around at the men accompanying him.  They were grinning more than ever.  Perhaps that was a good sign too.  For somebody, if not for him.

            "Go on in," one said.  "Go see the Boss."

            Piranha looked at the metal door, still somewhat dented from the antics of the previous night.  It struck him that he had neither eaten nor slept in a long, long time.  He straightened his hat, resettled the badge on his shirt, brushed the remaining dirt and dust of the fight off his jacket, and pushed the door open.

            The large, empty room was nearly unlit.  There were only the faint pinpoints of a few tiny wall-lights up in the corners, a backup safety lighting system.  Piranha stopped just inside the door as it closed behind him.  He peered into the darkness uncertainly.

            "Where the hell have you been?" came the voice of the Boss, somewhere off to his left.  Piranha swivelled quickly.  There, some thirty feet away across the room, barely discernible, was a darker patch in the darkness:  the tall black robot, his form blurred by his heavy cloak, lounging in a chair near the wall.  "Get over here."

            Silently, Piranha advanced across the room, almost entangling himself in a couple of chairs before his eyes adapted fully to the darkness. 

            Anaconda didn't stand, but up close it was clear that he was not as relaxed as his pose suggested.  There was tension in his voice as well.  "So you finally got here.  Do you realize I have a dozen people out combing the ship for you?  I hear you've been busy."

            The thought of Elly flashed anxiously across his mind.  Piranha stood up straighter.  "Yes," he said, calmly, "that's why I came here.  I thought I should speak to you right away."  He reached for the silver insignia, glittering faintly with tiny pinpoint reflections, to unhook it from his shirt.  As his hand approached his chest, however, Anaconda sat abruptly upright, and Piranha heard three ominous clanks behind him – jerking around, he saw the faintly lit raised gun barrels of Anaconda's bodyguards on the other side the room.  Could they see in the dark as well as the Boss?  

            One of the guards came striding across the room, holding a very large blast gun on Piranha.  Piranha froze, his hands up.  The guard came right up to him, seized the open flap of his jacket, yanked it half off him, and grabbed roughly at his chest, keeping the gun muzzle a few inches from his head. 

            "He doesn't have it on him, Boss," grumbled the guard.  "Only knives, and this popgun here."  He shoved Piranha away and retreated to stand against the wall near Anaconda.  Impassively, Piranha straightened his jacket.

            "You could _ask_ me, you know," he said to Anaconda, collectedly.  "I can talk."

            "I'm all too aware you can talk," said Anaconda.  "Explain yourself."

            "First of all," Piranha smiled coolly, reaching again towards his chest while the guard eyed him sullenly, "You see this round metal thing?  I was about to take it off.  I promise it doesn't explode."  He unhooked the insignia and held it out to Anaconda.  "At least," he added, "not literally. Here, take it, I make no claim to this."

            Anaconda waved it away impatiently.  He stood up and began to stride about in short irritable bursts.  "We'll see about that," he said.  "First of all, tell me why you ambushed Blargh."

            "Ambushed?  A fair fight doesn't count for an ambush on this ship, I hope?"

            "And of all places in the _engine room?_"

            "It's a nice roomy place for a conversation."

            "Don't you know that weapons are forbidden there?  Don't you know what the penalty is?"

            Piranha shrugged.  "It doesn't matter, does it?  We didn't use weapons.  Surely a little fist-fight wouldn't cause any harm?"

            "But you lured him in there and shot him!  With a certain _blast gun._"

            Piranha stared at him.  "Shot him?  Blargh?  Who told you that?"

            At that moment, a beam of light swept through the room as the door slammed open and shut again.  The huge pale form of Hacker came lumbering in.  "Boss!  Listen to this!"

            Piranha smiled.  "Hacker!  Such good timing, we were just talking about you."

            Hacker, halfway across the room, halted so abruptly he almost fell on his face.  Perhaps he didn't have as good night vision as some of the robots.

            "What are you doing here?" he squeaked.

            "Come over and talk with us," said Piranha, coolly.  "I'd be fascinated to hear what you have to say."

            Anaconda folded his arms across his chest.  "Yes, Second Mate, tell me the news."

            "Oh," said Hacker, feebly, "It's nothing...  Look, I just remembered something, have to go–"

            "Come here," said Anaconda, in an icy, implacable voice.

            Miserably, the bulky robot slunk closer.

            "So," said Anaconda, his eyes on Hacker, "Piranha, you admitted you had some sort of brush with Blargh in the engine room..." 

            "Yes.  But I didn't shoot him." 

            Anaconda narrowed his glare at Hacker – who happened to be very concerned with a rough spot on the floor –  then homed in on Piranha.

            "So you're telling me you _didn't_ shoot Blargh, and you _didn't _have any weapons in the engine room, and you _didn't_ assassinate him?  Then why do I keep being told he's dead?"

            "Uh – there was this Challenge..." 

            "You _challenged_ him?"

            "Er – yes.  There were a few hundred crew there and –"

            "A few hundred crew?  What –  So you didn't lure him in there by himself?"

            "Certainly not," said Piranha with scorn.

            Anaconda was looking at him meditatively, his small yellow eyes bright in the dimness.  "You challenged him so soon...  Rather in a hurry, aren't you.  But how could you fight him?  No weapons!"

            "That's what I said, Anaconda.  It was a fist fight.  That was his own idea."

            There was silence.  Anaconda again glanced at Hacker, who was very interested just then in tidying some loose flakes of metal trim along his arms that had probably been peeling off for decades.

            "Is this true?" the Boss said.

            Hacker was silent.  Anaconda folded his arms again.  

            "Well," Hacker muttered, "Well, yeah, I think so."

            "You _think?_  You, the one who always _knows_ everything?  Were you there when it happened?"

            Hacker gazed off into the darkness.  "... Yeah."

            Anaconda glared at Piranha.  "Was he there?"

            Piranha shrugged.  "I saw him before the fight.  I don't know how long he stayed.  There was quite a crowd.  Ask any of them."

            Anaconda considered for a moment.  Then he sat back in his chair and made a dismissive gesture.  "Ah well, no matter.  Keep that insignia, Piranha – though I wish you'd find a better spot to put it, it looks like some sort of cheap jewellery on your shirt and you're far too dandified as it is.  In any case, it looks like the plans for the invasion will have to be altered, since you'll be going down as First Mate and, I suppose, as the War Chief.  Should be interesting."  He aimed his cold glowing eyes again at Hacker.  "All right, Strategy Chief, you can go now.  And see if you can restrain your voice box for an hour or two."

            Hacker, although some nine feet tall, looked no bigger than a footstool as he bowed to the Boss, turned, and fled out the door.  Then Anaconda turned back to Piranha, who had somewhat resignedly replaced the metal insignia on his shirt. 

            "Piranha.  You're a troublemaker and no mistake.  But this time you've made more trouble for yourself than anyone else.  It's going to be quite an expedition for you, considering you'll have to pick everything up on the fly.  I should keep you here tonight and have Tulik give you some briefings..."

            "Oh," said Piranha, softly, "Just when I was meaning to go and talk things over with Hacker."

            Anaconda fell silent.  His eyes glowed a little brighter.  "Oh, were you?" he said.  "It's an unfortunate thing, how new officers so often have to overcome such unwarranted objections from the old ones.  Regrettable..."

            Piranha looked at him thoughtfully.  He didn't reply.

            Anaconda went on, airily, "Well, since you have things to attend to, and so do I...  I'll let you go.  I want a report, however, _as soon as anything happens._  If anything should happen to occur."

            "Anything such as...?"

            Anaconda shrugged, the long dark cape swirling around him.  "Things happen all the time, don't they?"

            Piranha turned to leave.  As he reached the door, it burst open yet again.  Another robot, a small one only five feet tall, rushed in past him, almost knocking him over.  

            "Boss!  Boss!  I just heard Piranha shot Hacker two minutes–"  

            Piranha, standing by the door, palmed on the room's light switch, flooding the place with glare.

            The small robot, startled, turned and saw him.  "Oh," he said.

            Anaconda emitted a peculiar scraping sound not unlike a sigh.

            "That's enough, Piklon," he said.  "Goodbye."

            "Yes, sir," said the robot, and darted back out the door.  

            Without a word, Piranha turned the light back off and went out the door himself.

***

            He wasn't expecting the reception he received as he emerged from the war room, not only from the men who had accompanied him, but also the many dozens waiting around in the hall.  It looked like even more had accumulated while he was in with Anaconda.  They all started up eagerly as he emerged – it was him finally, not another false alarm.

            A little surprisingly to them, he was not being dragged out in chains by the guards.  Seeing that Piranha really was still wearing the silver oval insignia of the First Mate, the crew let out a jarring cheer that reverberated up and down the corridors.

            He straightened up and stared at them all.  The look on his face was cold, even arrogant, but with the faintest trace of an ironic smile.  

            "What are you all hanging around here for?" he snapped.  "I take it you're waiting to tell me where one _Hacker_ is hiding out?"

            The sight of a hundred and fifty simultaneous unwashed, unshaved, gap-toothed grins could have been unnerving.  Piranha grinned a little himself.

***

            The officers' bar was near the officers' residential quarters, a couple of levels down from the war room and towards the back of the ship.  He was glad to have the company of that small army on the way over.  Despite the obvious opinion of the majority, there were two more attacks, and he passed a few other malcontents who saw the crowd around him and evidently changed their minds.  

            He also picked up on a few muttered remarks from those malcontents that brought out his very coldest smile.

            On the other hand, as he went along the crowd around him continued to grow.  In fact, he had the feeling that this was the best excuse for a party the ship had seen in quite a while.

            As the phalanx of pirates neared the officers' bar, once again the corridors seemed to be more and more crowded.  There were a lot of crew about, there was still plenty of random drinking going on, and a distinct air of suppressed excitement.  He caught sight of Bubo on the floor throwing dice with a few others.  As Piranha and the mob of pirates approached, he got to his feet, grinning, shoving at the others around him to get up too.  They all fell in with the group accompanying Piranha.  

            By the time Piranha reached the door of the officers' bar, the mob following him stretched back around a bend in the corridor.  And there was another bunch of crew, both men and robots, lounging around the door of the bar.  They all straightened up in a businesslike fashion when they saw Piranha (who again thought of his blast gun).

            But they weren't there to guard the place from him. 

            "We thought you'd never get here!" said one, a beefy red-haired man with an eyepatch and a spotted bandanna tied around his head in the most traditional piratical fashion.

            "We can't go in," said a bronze robot, who was grinning so widely it was fortunate he didn't have to use his mouth to talk – his head might come off.  "Only officers allowed."

            Piranha smiled.  "Can they really stop _all_ of us from going in?" he said.

            More grins.  Knives and guns began to appear.

            As far as stopping the crew went, they couldn't, or wouldn't.  Piranha threw open the door, and at the sight of him and the flood of men that poured in around him, the three guards in the bar threw disgusted looks towards the back of the room, lowered their guns, and turned their backs.  The few officers sitting at the crude tables and at the bar stood up, staring with varying degrees of hostility, confusion, or, in some cases, discreet curiosity; none of them tried to interfere.  For one thing, aside from the guards, only the invading crew were carrying weapons.

            Piranha strode without hesitation, barely glancing at his surroundings, straight to the back of the room.  There, in a corner, sitting alone at a table with his face turned away, and completely failing to look inconspicuous, was the whitish, squarish, almost obscenely bulky form of Hacker.

            Piranha stopped some ten feet away from him.  "Well, if it isn't Hacker," he said.  "How nice to find you sitting here peacefully doing a little harmless, innocent lubrication, minding your own business as always – barged in on by a rude bully for no reason at all.  There, I said your line, your turn to say mine."

            Hacker pretended not to hear.  Piranha pulled a long dagger out of his vest.  Its glint reflected in the slanted mirrors that lined the wall.  Hacker didn't budge.

            Piranha smiled, that same cold, dark, blood-freezing smile he'd given Blargh before the fight.  "Hacker seems to have a hearing problem," he commented to the men nearby.  "I suppose we'll need to clean out his ears for him."

            Even Hacker couldn't ignore the cacophonous cheer that erupted at that nonsensical statement (nonsensical especially since he didn't have any visible ears).  He heaved his massive body off the solid metal bench he sat on and slowly turned around.

            Though he was nearly as tall as Blargh had been, and so broad that he was almost square (giving the overall effect of a gorilla-limbed sumo wrestler stuffed with difficulty into a suit of metal armor), Hacker had a knack for looking a lot smaller than he was.  His rolling, bulging metallic eyes glanced piteously at Piranha, he slouched a little, his grotesquely long arms dangling helplessly.  The lugubrious effect was only amplified by the ragged striped shirt draped around his badly scuffed-up chest, the dirty bandanna covering his head, and the big hoop earrings stuck in where his ears should have been.

            "Piranha," he said, in an oddly thin whine for such a massive body, "I couldn't wait to congratulate you!  An amazing victory!  To think you're already First Mate!"

            By now, some of the officers in the bar were also drifting down to watch amidst the mob of crewmen.  

            "What was that we heard from you a few minutes ago, Hacker, about Piranha being put in chains as a mutineer?" said one, dryly.  

            "For _pretending_ to be First Mate?" added another.

            And a third officer, another robot, said angrily, "What would've happened to us if we'd tried to assassinate the _real First Mate?_  You know what you could be starting?"

            Piranha glanced at the speakers, then turned a cold smile back on Hacker.

            "You–you didn't understand what I said," the big robot was babbling.  "I only meant that he wasn't confirmed by Anaconda yet, but of course, naturally that bound to happen, wasn't it?  You can't hold such talent down, I've always said so–"  He bent over a little more, holding his massive hands out pleadingly towards Piranha.  Piranha was standing solidly as though fixed to the floor, the dagger in his hand, his implacable eyes fixed on Hacker's face.  Hacker's eyes kept flicking towards that dagger as though he expected it at any moment to morph into a cannon.

            "You dodged out of the engine room before the fight was done," Piranha mused.  "Why would you do that, I wonder?  Not see the finish?  Miss the chance of being the first to start the gossip?"

            _"Piranha–"_

            "Oh, but silly of me – if you were just going to make it all up anyway, why would you need to know what actually happened?"

            "I was only trying to help you!"  Hacker's whining voice sounded oddly near tears.  "I was going to get reinforcements!  How could I possibly know that you would be able to beat _Blargh?" _

            Piranha raised the dagger point up, flashing light along it, inspecting it closely in a leisurely fashion. 

            "Is that your usual caliber of lie, Hacker?  My god, I can't believe you're still alive."

            "It's _not_ a –"

            "So interesting, the rumours running through this ship.  There were even a few attempts to kill me while I was on my way here to pay my respects to you.  Attempts by people who seemed convinced that I had murdered you – or Blargh, or Anaconda – or who had somehow mysteriously picked up the idea I had hijacked the ship to go after some personal enemies of my own... as if I had any."  He looked directly at Hacker and smiled.  "Some folks will believe anything, eh Hacker?" Hacker's dangling earrings jingled a little against his head as, quivering slightly, he lifted up his massive hands in a gesture of utter innocence.

            "Piranha," he said, "Don't jump to conclusions about me!  Just because Blargh wouldn't work with you doesn't mean I won't!  You're the perfect First Mate!  It doesn't matter if you're human, it's time the humans took a bigger role on this ship, and besides, I'm your biggest supporter, I was never fooled like Blargh, I _know_ what brilliant things you did defending your planet–"

            Piranha took a deliberate step forward, Hacker shrank back a little.  Piranha's voice was soft, chilling.  "Just what were you up to in the old section today?" 

            "The–the old section?  W-what?  That couldn't have been me, I wasn't–"

            "You'd never be caught there yourself, you sent your goons, but it was _you._  Taking down all those doors.  What were you looking for?"  

            "Piranha, First Mate, sir, in all honesty, I have no idea what you're talking about–"

            Abruptly, Piranha jumped onto a nearby table, bringing his face up closer to Hacker's eye level.  Hacker couldn't disengage his eyes from the cold, fierce stare Piranha aimed at him.

            "You're unnecessary, Hacker," Piranha said.  "Superfluous."

            "First Mate," Hacker said, hastily, drawing back a little more, "Piranha, listen, I've no quarrel with you–"

            "That's just it.  You don't quarrel.  You smile, and cringe, then stab people in the back.  I call that superfluous." He reached into his arsenal and pulled out his pistol.

            "You don't understand, Piranha!  I was just trying to – protect you!  You don't have a better friend on this ship than me!"  Frantically, Hacker looked over at one of the watching robot officers.  "Blasa," he groaned.  "Tell him!  Tell him I'd never–"

            "Do your own lying," snapped the other robot, folding his arms.

            The crew and other officers watching the scene were noisy now, making catcalls, laughing, throwing out comments.  "Tell him some of your great _jokes_ about him, Hacker!  Like you told us!"  "Oh, tell him the one about him on his planet, that was a good one, he'll love it!"  "What, that one about the fifteen fairies and the helmet and–"  Raucous laughter.  "Hacker, you want my advice, just buy him a drink and for once shut your mouth!  It's safer!"  "No, no, let's have a fight!  Hacker's a great fighter!  Almost as good as a five-year-old female slave!"  More laughter.  And, as Hacker watched, his bulging metallic eyes flicking from one face, one part of the room, to another, there were more and more calls for a fight.  "Where you going to stick that knife, Piranha?" "How many shots would it take to shut Hacker up?" "Maybe a firing squad!  How 'bout a firing squad?  A six or eight hour barrage ought to do it!"  "To shut him up?  No, that'd take a ten-ton bomb!"  "Let's just drag him out to the garbage chute and toss him off the ship!"  "Nah, he won't fit!"  "Oh, we'll make him fit all right!"

            Still on the table, Piranha took another step closer.  His eyes looked completely black.  "Come outside, Hacker," he said.  He gestured with the gun.  "We'll finish this in the hall."  

            Hacker gave one last despairing look around the room.  Seeing nothing but hostile faces, he turned back to Piranha.  Then, so violently that Piranha gave a huge leap up and back to avoid an attack, the big robot flung himself forward, crashing first to his knees then flat onto the cracked wood floor, covering his face with his rough, dented, gap-fingered metal hands.  Piranha, landing on the floor just out of his reach, his weapons ready, stared at him.

            "First Mate!  Boss!  You're my boss.  Me and my men are your servants.  We belong to you now." Hacker's voice came out muffled by the floor and his hands.  "On my life I swear!  On my life."

            Piranha, still poised warily on his toes, ready to lunge away or attack, looked at the prostrate monster in front of him, then glanced around at the spectators.

            They were staring just as dumfounded.

            Piranha took an exasperated breath.  Frowning with deep suspicion, he lowered his weapons.  Although the surrounding pirates were glaring at Hacker with, if anything, even greater contempt than before, he could see their rather sarcastic grins of approval as he put his gun away.

            "Too cowardly to be killed," muttered one.  "Two masters!  Hedging your bets, you scum, you'll try _anything."_

            Piranha said to Hacker, threateningly, "Aren't you Anaconda's man?"

            Not stirring from his submissive posture, Hacker said, "We're all Anaconda's men.  But you'll be my direct boss, you'll get your share... you'll get _extra_... I promise..."

            Piranha was silent.  He didn't like this at all.  He wasn't sure of the consequences if he either accepted or refused.  But the onlookers were nodding.

            "Hacker," he growled, in a low but penetrating voice, "You're a liar and you're lying right now.  But I despise killing a guy who can't fight, so you can stop grovelling.  Just keep in mind that if I ever catch you in another lie, about me or _anybody else – _or if there's ever the least hint that you or your men have been seen anywhere near the old section – that'll be it, Hacker, I won't bother to listen to your excuses that time."  Teeth bared in disgust, he put his dagger back in its place.  "It's against my better judgement, but you get one more chance.  Now beat it.  Fade away.  Don't remind me you exist."

            With a sort of unbelieving gasp, Hacker hunched himself up, pulling his elbows and knees together, glancing up at Piranha but unable to meet his eyes.  "You–you won't regret it– I'll never–"

            Piranha's teeth bared more, in a fierce scowl.  "Shut up, Hacker.  I regret it already.  Get out."

            Followed by jeers and rude noises, not to mention a couple of stray shots from some of the more enthusiastic crew, Hacker scrambled to his feet and thundered as fast as he could across the barroom and out the door.

            Piranha watched him go, still glowering.  There was laughing and cheering around him now, though, and the crew, tension relieved, their inhibitions unbottled by success, a little drunk just with being in the officers' bar, were pulling out more guns and a couple more shots were fired into the ceiling.  The bartender, a small rather tubular-shaped bronze robot, looked about to panic, and the guards at the other end of the room were approaching now, raising their weapons.  

            Piranha jumped back onto the table.  "Men!" he shouted.  They cheered him happily.  "Well done, men, that deserves a drink!"

            They cheered that even more.  

            "Then we need to get out of here, our work's done for tonight!"  He looked meaningfully at the bartender. 

            "Uh – who's gonna pay?" the bartender ventured.

            Piranha, with a coiled little grin, jumped off the table and swaggered towards the bar.  "What?  Don't you think these men have earned a drink?" he said, casually.

            The bartender, hesitating, looked at him, at the men, at the guards (who, looking relieved, were lowering their weapons again) and at the group of officers chuckling together, quite unconcerned, in the back of the room.  He sighed.

            "Oh, hell.  Line up.  _One_ drink apiece.  As long as there's no more shooting!"

            "Fair enough.  _One_ drink, no more shooting, and leave those mirrors alone!"  Piranha grinned at the crew as they were lining up.  "And after you've had your drink – get out!  Bubo, let's have you and your friends escort them to the door."  

            While the crew were getting their drinks, Piranha slipped out of the bar to stand in the hall by the door.  He looked up and down the corridor.  Aside from the sporadic but increasing trickle of crew coming in (mysteriously, the rumor of free drinks had already made its way outside), it looked pretty peaceful for the moment.  

            "Ah, I thought you'd be here," said a metallic voice nearby.   Piranha turned; Tulik was standing in a doorway down the hall, his arms crossed.  The silver robot emerged from the alcove and came towards him.  "This is always the best place to find the Second Mate."

            Piranha smiled.  "Tulik," he said.

            Tulik's featureless blue gaze lit on the insignia on Piranha's chest.  "You saw the Boss already, Piranha?"

            "Yes."

            "Good.  But what did you do to Hacker?  I saw him come through the door – he hasn't moved that fast in the last two hundred years."

            Piranha smiled again.  "Oh, you know, we came to an understanding."

            Tulik crossed his arms again, looking down the hall.  "I hope you do understand him, Piranha."

            Piranha sighed.  "What I don't understand, to be quite frank, is why he's Second Mate."

            Tulik was silent.  His expressionless face turned to Piranha, and those strange, luminous, sky-blue eyes gazed at him without motion for such a long time that Piranha began to feel uneasy.

            "Don't take offence," he said quietly.  "I'm new here.  I need information very badly."

            "Nothing offends me," said Tulik.  "I do find your choice of questions interesting, though.  And some are not very safe to answer."

            "All right," said Piranha.  He stood aside from the door, as a number of crew were starting to come out.  They seemed remarkably content.  

            "How's it going in there?" Piranha said to one of them.  "Everything okay?"

            "Great," said the pirate.  "Man, you really showed that zinc-plated – er, _sorry,_ Tulik, sir.  And _man_, you officers get some good quality stuff!  Who's next, Piranha?"

            "More like, _what's_ next," said the First Mate.  "How about locating your sleeping bunk while you can still walk?"

            "Oh, hell yeah, why not," said the pirate.  He and the others with him bunched up together and began swaying down the hall, singing together – each one a different song.

            "I think they like you," said Tulik, dryly.

            "Better than Hacker, anyway," said Piranha.  

            Tulik looked at him sharply.  "Yes," he said, thoughtfully.  "There's something quite different about you, you know.  I don't mean the way you're constructed.  Something else, I don't know what it is.  People _like_ you."

            "Aw, I'm disappointed," said Piranha.  "Here I'm doing my best to be an utter bastard and people insist on liking me?"

            Tulik's head tilted a little.  "Yes, remarkably fine acting abilities, I thought," the robot said.

            Piranha raised his eyebrows.  "You think it's an act?"  Tulik said nothing.  Piranha went on, "That's insulting, you know.  In fact, I'd say you're about the most insulting lieutenant I've ever had."  Tulik still said nothing.  Piranha grinned a little, not looking at him.

            After a moment, Tulik said, "I've heard you say some peculiar things since you arrived, Piranha."

            "Oh?" 

            "... I understood them, I think. Though I doubt the men do."

            "Oh, I think they do," Piranha murmured.

            Tulik was quiet for a time.  Then said, "Piranha... There is someone else who won't fail to understand.  Why do you suppose we are led by the likes of Blargh and Hacker?  Do you imagine it's an accident?"

            Piranha glanced at him sharply.

            Quietly, looking at the floor, Tulik said, "Humans are easy to sway, and they're fickle.  They're undisciplined, they come from many different places, they squabble among themselves.  And they're gone so soon.  In the long run, their opinions don't much matter.  The robots are the foundation and the leaders of the ship.  But there is only one master; he misses very little, and nothing sways him, ever."

            Piranha looked at him silently.  Tulik was quiet for a time, facing into the hallway and looking off into space while more men streamed into and out of the bar.  (Piranha stepped in a few times to head off the occasional pirate who was hoping to turn around and sneak back in for another drink.  Once or twice, when the door opened, he could hear the increasingly mournful voice of the bartender:   "Where did _you_ come from?"  However, at least there were no sounds of riot inside, so things were going as well as could be expected.)

            When the traffic had slowed for a while, Tulik said, softly, "I wouldn't give any other human a slave's chance, as First Mate.  I don't know how this is going to work out.  But I found your ideas interesting.  Even ... moving."

            Piranha looked at him quizzically.  "Ideas?  Me?  I didn't realize I had any."

            "Perhaps it's just that you're from ... outside.  I think outside ideas will not penetrate this ship, Piranha.  But I'm curious...  I'd like to see you survive for a while."

            Piranha grinned wryly.  "Then help me with the odds.  Show me how."

            Tulik was silent again, for a very long time.  "... I will help you if I can, Piranha.  Even though I don't think that ..."  He fell silent again, lowering his head.

            Piranha looked at him, then settled against the wall, leaning back, closing his eyes; it struck him with sudden force how very tired he was.  "Tulik," he said quietly, "Anything you ever want to say to me... I'll always listen."

            "Well, for one thing," said Tulik, lightly, "I think a few more of the men have heard about those drinks."

            Piranha started up, eyes snapping open.  The rivulet of pirates coming out of the bar had slowed to a trickle by this time.  Even most of the officers had left, wearing strikingly complacent smiles.  But, with some alarm, Piranha now picked up a distant rumble of voices and footsteps far down the corridors that had a sound like an approaching avalanche.  He jumped forward, turning to grin at Tulik.

            "Time to close the bar, I think," he said.  "Excuse me."

[End of Chapter 9, part 1]


	13. Bad Behaviour, Part 2

_Okay, once again don't forget this is PG-13 ... forgive me my trespasses. Nothing much, anyway. See Part I for copyrights and junk._

* * *

**Chapter Nine Part Two: Bad Behaviour**

A group of pirates, most of them human, accompanied him across the ship as he headed towards his cabin. They were stomping along, cheering, yelling, making fun of the occasional rather bewildered robot they passed, and generally congratulating themselves. Piranha was quiet, letting them celebrate, neither encouraging nor discouraging them. As they approached the old section, however, he found Bubo in the crowd and took hold of his sleeve.

"You've been very helpful today," he said.

"I think it'll pay off," grinned Bubo.

"Let's hope so. Bubo, somehow I don't completely trust our good friend Hacker."

"Why, Piranha, I'm shocked. I heard him swear loyalty to you with my own ears." Bubo was grinning even more.

"Yeah... I heard him too. And anything that comes out of his mouth, I assume the opposite. Bubo, I want him and his little pals kept out of the old section."

"You want me to arrange a patrol?"

"That's an excellent idea. Can you do that?"

"Look, you're _our_ First Mate. We'll be damned if we let Hacker get his hands on you."

Piranha looked up at him a touch skeptically. "What is it you want from me, anyway?"

Bubo didn't answer for a few steps. Then he said, "I think I heard you tell the truth once or twice."

Piranha walked rapidly along beside him. "Really? That matters to you?"

"Are you kidding? It matters like life and death. Do you know how many of us get killed in battle because we were lied to about what we were getting into? Or they just didn't bother to tell us? I've known guys, if they'd just been prepared... Besides. I have the feeling somehow you're not really interested in booty. Maybe you'll be more fair in getting it shared out."

Piranha looked at him wryly. "People change, you know. You show a guy a big pile of plunder, maybe he gets more greedy."

Bubo chuckled. "Well, if that happens to you, that won't make much of a change in my life after all."

"Come on Bubo, out with it, the real story."

"Ah, it's really simple, Piranha. I just want to be on the winning side for once. Being a human on this ship is a losing game, let me tell you. I think with you around our chances will be better."

"I can't promise anything, Bubo. I don't know what's going to happen."

"I still think our chances are better. They couldn't be much worse. Besides... maybe you need a human lieutenant."

Piranha smiled. "Maybe I do," he said. He halted.

They were just at the intersection where the dented, scratched old metal bulkheads of that little-used level of the ship gave way to the even more decrepit wooden walls and floors of the old section – or rather the oldest section, as some of the upper parts of the metal ship were in much better condition and clearly much newer.

Bubo said, "I have friends in different gangs. They have friends. You could have a lot of guys behind you."

Piranha looked at Bubo sharply. "You know," he said, "it would be really easy to take you as a guy with some sort of hidden purpose. You've been pushing me in the direction you want me to go ever since I first set eyes on you. Don't you think that's a bit suspicious?"

Bubo shrugged. "You're First Mate now. I'm nobody, a stray human. If I turn out to be a cheat, you'll just have me killed. Nobody who matters will notice. On the other hand, if I turn out to be pushing you the right way, you can make me your first or second lieutenant one of these days."

Piranha smiled a little. "You're ambitious."

"Yeah, maybe. Now that I see a chance that a human might be able to count for something. And maybe stay alive a bit longer."

"And get a bigger share of the take?"

"Well, I'm not a fool, Piranha."

Piranha smiled more. "So what you're saying, then, is that you're swearing loyalty to me like Hacker?"

"Not like Hacker!"

"Good!" Piranha, grinning wryly, held out his hand. Bubo looked at it dubiously. "We shake hands," Piranha explained. "We agree to the deal." He took hold of Bubo's slab of a hand and shook it. "Like that. Okay. Now we're partners."

A slow grin crept across Bubo's rough, scarred features. "Partners? You mean, like _not_ master and slave?"

"You gave me the benefit of the doubt, I'll return the favour."

Bubo glanced at his hand, then at Piranha again. "Okay. Well, looks like I've got some work to do, Piranha. Nobody's going to bug you tonight. _You! You swabs over there, the party's over, g'wan, get gone!_ Simfax, Elliol, Fred, c'mere, I wanna word with you guys!"

* * *

Entering the old section, alone at last after going around a few bends in the corridors, he paused. There was no one in sight.

He took a deep breath. He shook his head a little, as if to settle out the many and far-reaching events of the past few hours. So much had changed since he had left this place.

He stood still for a few moments, looking around him. Then, abruptly, he made a huge leap, grabbing his hat and tossing it forward, diving to the floor for a somersault and surging up like a dolphin breaching the surface, so that his head met up perfectly with the hat as it came down. He laughed. Just for the heck of it, he did it again – though the hat didn't cooperate quite as neatly that time. He tried it again, and it landed on his head just right. He whipped it into the air and caught it again, and smacked it back down on his head.

The hallway around him – the high, battered old walls, the scuffed planking of the floor, the ancient cockeyed, yellowish electric lanterns along the walls, bringing out the warm amber tones of the wood – right now, none of it looked hostile. He pressed himself against the wall for a moment. His large eyes, bright with the reflections of the lanterns, took a slow look up and down the corridor.

Then, with another irrepressible little jump, he set off down the hall. If he could just remember which cabin he'd left Elly in.

* * *

Elly woke instantly as the door opened. She sat up on the bed. There was that unmistakable silhouette framed for a moment in the light from the hallway.

Then the door closed again. In the darkness, the black-clothed figure was an indistinct smudge.

"Elly?" His voice, soft, light, playful.

"Yes, Piranha."

"I'm turning on the light." Hastily, she covered her eyes.

She could hear him moving around. She took her hands away from her eyes, blinking. He was standing in the center of the open floor space, stretching. Then he looked at her with those large, black, faintly ironic laughing eyes. He looked different – bigger, brighter, more forceful than she'd ever seen him. But, though there was still that playful note in his voice, he spoke quietly.

"It's late, isn't it? You can go back to sleep."

"No," she said, unwrapping herself from the blanket, shivering. "You must be hungry."

As she got up, he moved over to the table, dropped into a chair. He yanked off his hat, tossing it onto the table, and combed his fingers through his hair. "Ach... I need a shower."

He did look pretty scuffed up. He leaned back in the chair, stretching again. His gaze lit on the blast gun, abandoned on the table. He grinned.

"You didn't need to use that, I take it."

Over at the little galley, Elly murmured, "No."

"Well, that's a plus." He hopped up, grabbing the gun, quickly went to plug its recharger into the wall, and returned to his seat.

Elly set a cup and a plate of bread and cheese in front of him. Those large, intensely bright eyes glanced up at her. "Thanks," he said. He took a drink and then tore into the food. "I'm starving," he added, redundantly. "Are you hungry? Eat with me, Elly."

"I'm not hungry." She sat down at the table, however; perching nervously on the other chair.

Hungry though he was, after the first piece of bread his stomach rebelled. His body was too exhausted, and he was too wrought up, to eat much. He put the second, half-eaten piece of bread down. He gave Elly an odd challenging look.

"Well," he said, "Don't you know what you're supposed to say now? Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" His eyes – black, fiercely bright with that tense hyper-alertness she'd seen so often recently, but even more so – his eyes moved over her, as though looking not only at her but into and right through her. She winced. Then, looking at him, her own eyes widened.

"Nothing to say, Elly?"

"Piranha," she gasped. "Is that – isn't that the badge of –"

He pulled the silver oval off his shirt and looked at it, shaking his head. "Troublesome thing to get," he said. "Likely a troublesome thing to have, as well."

_"...Blargh's_ badge?"

He gave her a direct, amused, ironic look.

She was examining him closely now. "Piranha. You fought Blargh? You _killed_ Blargh? You took his badge?"

"In fact, it's been a very busy night–"

She pointed to the slash across his heavy black coat. "He cut you?"

"Oh – that's right, I forgot, yes."

An instant's hesitation, then she was out of her chair, yanking the coat off him, fingering the tear across his shirt. He pushed her lightly away, grinning wryly, before she could yank the vest and shirt off as well.

"I don't see any blood –"

"No," he said mildly, "I don't bleed. Anyhow, I'm okay, Elly, no serious damage, sit down."

She looked at him skeptically; then examined the coat again. "I have to fix this."

She was about to dart over to her sewing box. He gripped her arm.

"Wait, wait, hold on! Elly, don't keep running off like that."

As his hand touched her, she gasped, and froze. She hunched a little, turning away from those black eyes, and closed her own, lowering her head as if in resignation. The jacket dropped from her hand. He gazed at her averted face, perplexed.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

She didn't reply, she didn't stir. Only her body hunched a little more, miserably.

He got up, taking hold of her other arm, turning her to face him. She submitted without resistance; but she lowered her head, hiding her face. Her eyes were shut tight. Her body, as he moved it, felt like wood, inert and lifeless.

Then, abruptly understanding, he gasped, and let her go. For a moment, shock showed on his face; then a touch of anger.

_"Elly,"_ he said, very low, all lightness gone from his voice, "Elly, did you think I was going to – to _do_ something to you? Like those – those other pirates and those...?"

She didn't look at him. One hand holding onto the other wrist, she stood hunched and tense; but there was no trace of rebellion or resistance in her posture, only resignation.

"For god's sake, Elly, what did I _do?"_

"You... you won a victory... it's... it's your right.. It's... the usual..."

He slammed a hand on the table. "_What!_ Damn it! Oh, my _god,_ Elly, how could you think a thing like that!"

She crouched a little more, and he backed away a few steps. Then stood, breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"You..." she whispered, "I'm sorry if – but you seemed so – you _wanted_ something."

He stared at her for another moment and then flung himself back into his chair.

"Yes, that's right, I _did_ want something," he snarled. "I wanted someone to _talk_ to! I wanted – oh, my god, Elly!" He jumped to his feet again and began to stride back and forth, glaring at her. "This place is driving me mad! So much has happened, so much is going to happen, there's so much to figure out, and – my god, I never know what I'm going to trigger when I do anything around here! Look, I didn't want to be First Mate, I don't want the problems and ambitions and schemes of every damn person on this ship dumped into my hands! And I don't want to be fussed over like a baby for every little scratch! I don't want to be cringed away from like a murderer every time I take a breath or twitch! And for the love of god, more than anything, I _don't_ want–" He halted abruptly. When he spoke again, his voice was so tremulous that despite her timidity she couldn't help glancing at him.

Those dark blue eyes were flooded with grief. "Elly. Don't ever imagine I could want that from you. It's not that I don't – but I'm – I –" He sighed. "Don't take this as an insult, but it's just out of the question."

He gave his head a little shake, as if to dislodge the misery from his eyes. He smiled at her faintly. "I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea. Forgive my clumsiness?"

Uncertain, rather bewildered, she only looked at him.

He tried smiling again, slightly more successfully. He walked over to her chair and patted the seat. "Come on now. Sit down. Sit down, Elly. Let's just start this whole meeting over. We'll take it from the top."

And as she sidled timidly over to the chair, he actually went back to stand in front of the door. As she sat down, he stood there looking at her, a tiny smile in his eyes. Then utterly solemn.

"All right," he said. "I come in. I stand here holding a noble but anguished pose." Putting the back of his hand to his forehead, bending back dramatically. "You look at me and cry, 'Piranha! You've conquered the horrible, giant metal brutes! My hero! But – what's this? Oh my god, no, you're wounded! Quick, get over here so I can sew you up!' Tragically, I stumble towards you, gasping my last–" He bent forward, staggered a little, stretching out his hands, then collapsed to the floor twitching, took in a harsh, groaning breath that cut off in the middle – and his eyes fell closed, his mouth half-open. He was so suddenly, so utterly motionless that for a shocked instant she really thought he was dead. And after she had rejected that thought, and then – he was so _motionless_ – in the space of half a second flip-flopped on the idea half a dozen times, as she sat there frozen with doubt, he startled her with a sudden comical gasp and lunged halfway up. Then froze in a melodramatic pose; and died again. Then revived with another dramatic jolt. Then again, with a magnificent wheeze, expired; so that she had to forcibly suppress her smile under her hands, her honey-gold gaze peeking through her fingers.

His eyes slitted open a fraction, as though he were still dead but cheating.

"Come on," he hissed. "You're _cruel_ to me. _Laugh."_

Shyly, she chuckled. And with a sigh he relaxed, smiling. Although those dark eyes still looked faintly haunted by the inexplicable jolt of pain that had shot through them.

* * *

Sitting down at the table again, he offered her the remaining piece of bread and cheese. She took it, and nibbled at it slowly as, speaking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, he told her the events of the evening.

"There's so much I don't understand," he said. "But – somehow, I've gotten a lot of them on my side. At least for the moment. Can you believe that? I know Hacker's going to try something sooner or later, but – _they're off my back_, Elly, I really think I could go out there now and I wouldn't get ambushed once! At least now that the rumours are dying down. They absolutely hate Hacker, and I don't think Blargh was too popular either. Still, I wasn't sure, after that fight, whether they were going to cheer me or attack me en masse!"

She was gazing at him, shaking her head slowly. "So you really are First Mate. You've taken Blargh's place. And Hacker has sworn loyalty to you... he never did that to Blargh!"

"I don't think it means much."

"Oh, but it does. All his men will have to be loyal to you, too. And Blargh's. And you'll get shares of all their booty. Next to Anaconda, you're the strongest man on this ship now!"

He sat sideways in his chair, looking down at the floor, shaking his head. He was quiet for a while. At last he said, "This has all been too easy. I don't trust it." His eyes sank closed.

"Anaconda didn't take the insignia away. So you _are_ First Mate. Unless somebody challenges you!"

Giving a little start, as though shaken out of a trance, he glanced at her with a wry smile. "I suppose that could come any time now, eh?"

"I don't know... Blargh was first mate since before I came to the ship."

He looked thoughtful. Then, involuntarily, his eyes closed again, he swayed forward, barely catching himself. Elly jumped to her feet.

"Whew," he said. Clutching the table and back of the chair, he looked at her a little shakily.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm tired," he said. "That's all. It sort of caught up with me."

"Did you sleep last night at all?"

He smiled vaguely. "I haven't slept for days, aside from a moment's nap here and there, and I've hardly eaten today. Heh, and I've been busy. No wonder I've been a little hysterical the last while..."

She put her hands to her face. "I didn't even think of that! You have to get some sleep while you can! Tomorrow's going to be a long, hard day."

He went suddenly still. "The invasion."

"Yes. Piranha... go lie down."

A chill had come over the room. It wasn't just the nighttime lowering of the temperature. Elly didn't move, but kept her eyes on him. For a long time he stayed still, slumped a little in the chair.

At last, with a visible effort, he pushed himself to his feet. "All right," he murmured. "I'll lie down." Slowly, he walked over to the bed and toppled onto it, face down.

Elly came over and bent down beside him to get her sewing kit out from under the bed.

One of his eyes half-opened to peer at her. "Elly," he mumbled. He smiled slightly; there was something so awkward and forced about that smile that she paused. He lifted his head a little and smiled again. She couldn't have said why, but something about that pale, unconvincing smile made her eyes prick with tears.

"Hey," he murmured, "You don't really have to sew me up, you know!"

She smiled, welcoming the feeble joke. "Is it all right if I sew up your jacket?"

"Oh... right."

She didn't want to meet those eyes, that for an instant seemed to reach for her, to cling to her like a lost child.

He turned his head away. It fell to the bed, and he was asleep.

She picked up the blanket and laid it over him. She stood looking at him. Then sat down at the table with the jacket and went to work.

She was finishing off the last few stitches on his jacket, listening as she worked to his quiet breathing. The tears that came into her eyes made it hard to see, she brushed them away impatiently.

It was always like this. That cold, powerful repulsion forcing her away was never there when he slept. She couldn't sense any difference between him and Rayman when he slept. But when he woke, it would slam down again like a cage dropping over him, a trap...

It only made things worse to see it lifted again tonight. More tears welled up in her eyes. She put down the needle. To see Rayman looking through those black eyes, a wavering, distorted reflection, like a spirit trapped in a bottle. It only made things worse to know that something of him was trying to live, submerged in there, that he would surface a little only to be thrust back under, killed once again by Anaconda's man. Why was it always the wrong people who died?

She finished her work, tied off and cut the thread. Moving very quietly – he was, exhausted or not, such a light sleeper – she hung up the jacket. Her eyes avoided the blanketed bump on the bed. She went to her chair, bent over the table, laid her head on her arm. Eyes half closed, she sighed.

She'd have to get up soon, anyway. It would be best not to go back to sleep.

* * *

The voice crashed into the half-lit silent room like a squad of storm troopers.

_"Piranha! _Where the _hell_ are you?"

Piranha started so violently out of sleep that he flipped off the edge of the bed onto the floor. He froze there for a moment, gasping with shock, then thrashed in the blanket tangled around him.

Elly, dozing at the table, had snapped bolt upright at the voice. She jumped up to help Piranha, but he had already extricated himself.

He staggered up, looking around as though he expected to see Anaconda towering in the middle of the room. Then sat down on the bed – his body was shaking slightly, not so much with surprise as with exhaustion. He hadn't slept for much more than an hour.

The voice, slightly tinny and distorted, but obviously the voice of Anaconda, squawked again. "Piranha! First_ Mate!_ Report to the bridge! You have ten minutes!" The transmission ended with a loud click.

She looked at him. His eyes were closed. Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way over to the galley sink. He splashed some water on his face and stood leaning against the sink for a moment. Then he turned towards her. Those cold eyes, like bits of black stone.

"So he can trace our location after all?" he said. That low, hard voice, worse than the eyes.

"I-I don't know, but – that was probably heard all over the ship. They send messages that way sometimes." She pointed up to a grille on the ceiling.

He looked at it. "A – voice box? Like the robots have? I thought it was for air. All right."

Then, as if closing a book, he turned his attention away from her.

Involuntarily, Elly edged away a little. The aura of silence growing around him was physically unsettling to be around. He fetched the blast pistol from where it was recharging in the wall, inspected it, brought it to the table where his weapons vest was hanging and slipped it into place. He stood contemplating the ensemble for a moment; then left the room to go to their previous cabin, returning with a short sword which he laid on the table.

While he was gone she found him a clean shirt to replace the torn one he still wore. She laid the shirt and his jacket on the table near him. He gave the clothes an abstracted glance.

"Piranha, will you eat something? You won't get another chance until the end of the day."

He shook his head. Silently, he began a close inspection of his weapons vest.

She ventured, timidly, "Even if you're not hungry – it's such hard work, fighting the natives, burning the villages, you should–"

He closed his eyes. And as she looked at him, he almost disappeared. As if caught in an avalanche of black ice, he vanished into coldness. What was left was a mask grim and featureless as a little glacial rock. His eyes opened, they set themselves on her, and involuntarily she took a step back. Those grey metallic ovals, so much like the glowing blanks of the robots. But with a ferocity far more terrifying to her.

He didn't say anything. He returned to his task. Silently, she backed away.

* * *

With intent concentration, he went over every inch of his weapons vest, checking for any small tears or other damage, looking rapidly but carefully at each item, making sure that the daggers that acted as a palisade over his chest were properly arranged.

Then he pulled his shirt off, slipped on the new one, and began putting on the vest.

While making a last quick check of the tightness of its straps, about to pick up his jacket, he paused. Elly had gone over to the clothes hooks by the door and was taking down her ragged brown cloak.

He looked at her sharply. For the first time in what seemed hours he spoke. "Elly!" he barked.

She stopped with the cloak halfway around her shoulders.

He came towards her. "What are you doing?"

She finished wrapping the cloak around herself, huddling into it as if for protection. "I – I should go now too."

"What? Elly, you're not going down to the planet to _fight,_ are you?"

"N-no, of course not."

He went to take hold of her arm but stopped mid-gesture. "Where are you going?"

"The-the slave quarters, of course."

_"What?_ What for?"

She shook her head in dismay. "Oh, of course you don't know. It's the invasion, Piranha. I have to help out."

His voice dropped almost an octave, came out slow, with the faintest hint of threat in it. "Help out? Doing what?"

She took a step backwards, bumping into the door. "I–I _have_ to go, Piranha. I–"

"I just want to know what you're supposed to do."

"Well – whatever they need – helping to process the new slaves, you know–"

"Process?"

She was shaking her head helplessly, raising her hands. "The usual thing – settling them in, you know – taking away the things they shouldn't have, finding them a place to sleep, getting their names recorded, feeding them, branding them, finding them work, all that. Usually it's for two or three days. Since you're First Mate now, maybe they'll let me go earlier."

Those opaque, utterly expressionless eyes made her want to disappear, or die. "You're not going. You stay here."

She moaned quietly. "Piranha. Please. I have to go."

"Didn't you tell me that bastard _gave_ you to me? Whose orders do you follow? I say you stay here."

She shook her head. "I can't. At the start of an invasion, the whole ship has to help. Even the personal slaves. If I don't go... I might get killed, if anyone found out. I know I'd be taken away from you at the least, and end up on some awful work detail, like tending the–the torture boxes."

His eyes flickered. He lowered his head, turned away, walked back to the table to pick up his coat. Elly was still standing by the door, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. After he picked the coat up, he looked towards her again.

"What, are you still here? Go on then."

She gasped with relief and slipped out the door.

Slowly, he let out a long, harsh breath.

He remembered the jacket in his hands and put it on. He put on his gloves, his boots, his hat. He hefted the sword, settled it at his side; considered taking it off; ended by leaving it on. At last he was ready. He was a solid, heavily armoured, heavily armed war machine. There was nothing else left to do.

Except to open that door. He walked up to it, put a hand against it.

Some tiny part of him was chattering nervously that the Boss's acidic voice might come crackling out of that speaker again.

He snarled silently. The Boss's voice. As if the Boss mattered. The _Boss._

Eyes narrowed, mouth set, he slammed open the door and strode through it.

[End of chapter 9]


	14. The Descent, Part 1

Well, aside from the horrendous length of this chapter (four sections!), I'm sure you'll find plenty to dislike about it. Take your pick. Just don't blame me - I write what I'm told, I was only following orders. It's approximately the middle of the story, a hinge point, and probably about the grimmest part. I'm putting up the first section now, the rest will follow soon.

There's a bit of a change in the writing method of this section. It needed to be written this way for a number of reasons. I've tried to make it as clear as possible - though a couple of places are unclear or contradictory just because, well, they're supposed to be. Also please note that if some of the incidents don't seem to be in chronological order, it's because they're not. Notice the tense the paragraph's written in (present or past), that should help you sort it out.

NOTE: This chapter used to have special formatting to help make sense of it, but this has been lost since Fanfiction no longer supports it. The chapter might be easier to read on my Deviantart account (rayfan (dot) deviantart (dot) com), if you find it confusing. I have tried to help sort it out here as best I can.

As usual, PG-13 alert, general unpleasantness and language that reflects it. Don't bother asking me to apologize for it, or for the section titles for that matter... They're only words. And I'm very careful about the words I choose.

Rayman, Ly (c) UbiSoft Entertainment  
All else (c) Me alas.

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Descent**  
**Part 1: Reality**

Piranha emerged from the elevator and strode rapidly through the corridor, his coat and shirt torn and covered with dirt, sweat, and blood, his sword bumping against his side, his black eyes ablaze. Anxious slaves and the occasional small menial robot darted out of his path.

As he approached the ship's bridge, the control room, he was composing the report in his head. Or rather, attempting to compose it, his hardest work being to keep shoving aside the images that wrapped around him, dived at him like a swarm of hornets, snaked over and trailed behind him like the links of an endless chain.

_- All right, Anaconda. It's done, we've established your goddam base._

(In the midst of the chaos of fleeing villagers running in all directions, suddenly in front of him, so close he almost trips, a pair of panicked grey eyes staring transfixed into his own and then at his upraised sword. A child's eyes. He halts, lowering his hand. Then starts - a shrieking woman coming at him, torn dress and tangled hair, armed only with a stone in one hand and her terrified rage. He can't turn and run -)

_- The attack went smoothly enough._

(The hour of tense anticipation on the ship near the large exit at its lowest level, waiting for the attack to be launched. A thousand sleepy, edgy, irritably half-sober pirates crowded together in the huge assembly area in the ship's belly near the exit, shifting their weapons from hand to hand, making subdued bets, quietly grumbling. Then the call to mobilize, they line up behind the five huge, heavily armed battle robots, and as the giant door opens they storm down the broad gangway, a seething river of bandanas, unshaven jaws, swords and pistols, bloodshot eyes.

_("Quiet! Keep quiet!"_ Standing by the exit, Piranha snarls at them. _"It's a sneak attack, damn you, keep it down!" _

(After ensuring the pirates have all left, he follows them out of the ship. As he emerges, he looks out from the top of the high gangway. Not very distant, in a clearing there is the silent, sleeping village, lying like a moonlit jewel in the velvety black setting of the nighttime forest. Lit like silver by the moon. He grips his sword, shuddering. The arrival of the gigantic ship was so soundless... They will have no warning. The village, the moonlight blurs momentarily. Clutching the handrail, he begins his descent.)

He rounded a corner, grinding his teeth, thrusting a slow-moving elderly slave out of his way.

_- The tactics were effective. Those people didn't know what hit them._

(In the quiet starlit night, near the sleeping settlement of little wooden houses and straw shacks, there is a soft screeking of moving metal parts. And then without warning, flames explode from the edge of the forest, instantly incinerating five of the dwellings. Cries, screams, shouts in an unknown language, and then, pouring from the village, dozens of human forms indistinct in the darkness, unsteadily lit by the red-yellow flames.)

_- No resistance worth mentioning._

(They encircle the clearing where the houses lie, and as the population is scattering, the flames spreading, the pirates with a swelling roar launch the charge into the village. A few men come running out to fight, struggling to yank their pants on while not tripping over their swords, pikes, pitchforks, wooden threshing flails. Racing crazily in a dozen directions, panicked as a nest of mice a cat's jumped into.)

_- The surviving enemy fighters are under control and being held for your inspection. There aren't many of them._

(He dodges as the warrior brings down a hard two-handed blow with his long sword that would have sliced his head in half. The man pulls the sword back up as Piranha jerks to the side, and brings it down again, another powerful stroke that cuts close to Piranha's body, between his outstretched sword hand and his trunk. For an instant, his opponent's face shows fierce satisfaction, then almost simultaneously goes pale. No arm cut off that small, weirdly powerful black trunk... no arm... In that shocked moment, Piranha has an opening, but he hesitates. The tall, blond, muscular fighter, the blood-soaked bandage around his chest testifying to an earlier wound - he's outlasted hours of fighting by now and is still continuing to fight, despite the terrifying, overwhelming forces unleashed against his village, still holding out despite the uselessness of trying to defend his people. Must he be killed? With his free hand Piranha pulls out his nearly discharged blast gun, set to stun - the villager's blue eyes double in size as they take in yet another utterly alien object - and he fires. The sword drops from the man's hand, he wavers for a moment, then collapses unconscious. Stowing his gun again, Piranha makes sure the captive's still breathing, then drags him through the waning battle back towards the holding area in the town.)

_- We've taken the two neighbouring villages. We're fortifying the main meeting hall of the larger one and building a stockade._

(He lugs his still-unconscious prisoner through the gate fencing off the holding area and drops him. He looks around. His white teeth show in his smoke- and dirt-blackened face. The large dusty village square, much of it filled already with bent, anonymous figures, greyish outlines half-seen in the early dawn, mostly women and children clutching each other, huddling together under the first anemic spatter of an oncoming rain. He hears their low voices keening softly in fear and grief, or murmuring indistinctly to comfort one another, or sobbing, or moaning in pain, or ... silent.

(Leaving the prisoner with one of the guards, he escapes through the gate -)

_- The base is in a clear area, good visibility, easily defended._

(In the darkness, the contortions of the yellow flames rising from the burning houses throw a weird dancing light on the battle, glinting off the metallic heads and arms of the robots, playing on the unshaven faces, the jagged teeth and blackened eyes of the human pirates, reflecting in the swords and pistols and daggers, and outlining dozens of disorganized, panicked, fleeing forms, half-dressed, all startled from their beds, dragging small children, calling out to find lost ones.

(He leaps with his dagger as one of the villagers, a man armed with a heavy wooden pole, comes from behind to bash in the head of a pirate busy with another fighter.

(And a moment later, the continual shouting and screaming that has gone on so long it's faded into almost unheard background noise, suddenly escalates, and there is a rush of heat and light, a fierce whooshing sound - several of the separate fires have gotten hold of new fuel and combined together, the flames soar to twice their previous height, suddenly villagers and pirates are all in the same danger, they are almost surrounded, everything's burning - thatched wooden houses, piled firewood, dry brush lighting up and setting off trees and bushes, in this half-wild little village there's far too much that can burn.

("Get the hell out of here!" he shouts to his lieutenants, to anyone who can hear him. "Retreat, get _out, now!"_ Not that they need the advice, everyone is fleeing, hunters and hunted alike.

(Yes, there will be plenty of open space around here soon enough.)

_- We didn't capture any political leaders. If they even have any._

(An old man tottering out from the village towards them, smiling - smiling! - holding flat in his outstretched hands a large ceremonial-looking sword, sheathed, in what Piranha instantly grasps is a gesture of peace.

(He grabs at the arms of the pirates on either side of him, but already at the sight of a sword they've fired their pistols and moved on. He glances at the old man; and moves on as well. There's nothing he can do.)

* * *

Piranha halted as he emerged into the last corridor. The door of the bridge was in sight. Four guards in front of it, two human, two robot. They flicked covert, uneasy glances in his direction. One met his eyes by accident and winced away.

He looked at the metal door and snarled under his breath. No doubt Anaconda hadn't sauntered out that door since Piranha had seen him in the morning. Watching, spying, smiling, thinking his own thoughts, keeping his own elegant hands clean.

* * *

(Having just been shocked out of his brief sleep - it's still the middle of the night, hours before he was expecting to report to the Boss, hours before the ship has even entered the planetary system they're aiming towards - barely awake, Piranha stumbles into the bridge for the first time. It's a small, dimly lit round room at the front and near the top of the multileveled ship, busy with the activity of several robots. There is a navigation panel for control of the ship, viewscreens showing a variety of information about the ship's path and surroundings. The room is dominated by an enormous rectangular port or window, curved slightly with the curvature of the ship's hull, allowing a direct view outside. Involuntarily, Piranha halts - he's never seen such an expanse of naked space. The depth of it, the clustered stars, the blackness, the vastness; it's like stepping outside the ship.

(Anaconda, seated in a tall chair facing the port, turns at his entrance and smiles. "There's a tad more to the universe than you thought, eh, country boy? You've wasted enough time getting here, stop gawking."

(The view forgotten, Piranha's mercury-coloured eyes shift to the Boss. The black robot, his long dark red cloak wrapped around his body, his thin whiplike baton dangling loosely from one hand, gets out of the chair and approaches him. Still with that strange, barely definable smile, which on that inhuman face could perhaps be nothing more meaningful than a slight opening of the mouth. Or which might express an irony and contempt too deep for words.

("Why didn't you report back as I ordered last night?" the Boss says, the subtle irritation in his tone belying the half-smile on his face. Piranha looks at him blankly. With increasing irritation, Anaconda starts to swing the baton between his fingers. "After all the pointless violence you've instigated on this ship, Piranha, to get cold feet now! Don't you realize how much damage a fool like Hacker can do to you?" Understanding dawns abruptly in Piranha's face. He gives Anaconda an ironic grin. "What? You mean you _wanted_ me to kill him? Why didn't you say so?"

(Anaconda stops swinging the stick, clutches it tightly. His yellow eyes glow harder. But he says nothing.

(And Piranha's metallic eyes, nearly lost in the shadow of his large black hat, glare up at him with undisguised hostility. Motionless, the two of them stare at each other for a moment in silence.

(Then, smiling coldly, Anaconda turns deliberately away, walks towards an electronic chart on the wall. "Ah well, some people simply can't be helped. - Now get over here, you need to see these maps of the landing site. Steckle, the chart master, will explain them to you."

(Piranha moves towards the display, glancing at the smallish grey robot in front of it, then up at the planetary charts. In a few hours ... Too late now, too late.)

* * *

Still standing in front of the metal door of the bridge, Piranha shook his head clear. He realized suddenly that he was panting hard, as though he had been running flat-out straight up a long hill. He closed his eyes, made a last effort to normalize his breathing. Clenching his fists. Subdue it. Silence it. Tamp it down, take hold, crush it, suppress it.

No; no use, impossible. At this moment, it was taking all his strength only to keep from exploding into mindless savagery against anything nearby - guards, slaves, the door, himself. His body was trembling faintly with the effort of it. Merely to see what was in front of him took enormous concentration. His head was surrounded with images, they thrust themselves in front of his eyes, they flew into his face like diving hawks, they ... Grimly he focused his eyes onto the door. Here and now. Here and now.

His black glove rammed the heavy door open.

* * *

"So," said Anaconda, standing and leaning on his captain's chair, "all in all, then, it's going pretty well."

Piranha's burning black eyes fixed on him. "The battle robots weren't necessary," he said. "Those people live in wood and straw huts. They didn't even have anything that could stand against little pistols. There were a lot of pointless casualties."

"Of course," said Anaconda complacently. "So they didn't give you much trouble."

Piranha shrugged irritably. "We erased them," he said. "They had a few fighters who made a pathetic effort to stand up to us at least long enough to let the women and children escape. Most of them hardly knew which end of their swords or spears to use. If they even had weapons. These people aren't warriors, they're accustomed to peace."

"How ideal," said Anaconda. "So you captured the women and children?"

"Some of them. As you ordered, we concentrated on taking the village. There were two close to each other, we took them both. We've established a base camp in the larger village. There's a big fenced-in corral there that can be ... used." He was having trouble with his breathing again. He paused for a moment.

Anaconda reached out with his baton, stroked it under Piranha's chin so that he looked up into Anaconda's face. The Boss smiled. "Not feeling well?"

Piranha glared at him. "That can be used to hold the captives before bringing them onto the ship. The men are fortifying it now. There are some 40 or 50 captives being held until we're sure the ship is ready to take them."

"Oh, it's all ready, send them along."

"Fine. We lost three crew in the battle, in case you wanted to know. Caught in the fires. Several serious injuries as well."

"Rotten luck. Any booty captured?"

Piranha gave a hard, exasperated exhalation. "Booty? We haven't had a chance to go through the rubble. There's not much left of those villages. Since you ordered -"

"That's all right. Not bad, Piranha, you didn't mess up too terribly for your first try. Now-"

Piranha, unable to stop himself, cut in. "Just why did you want us to burn the villages? You couldn't expect to get much loot after that. And going in with those massive robots and their blast weapons - that's no way to take slaves alive. None of this makes _sense._"

Anaconda, about to get back into his chair, turned on him, smiling contemptuously. "Some simple ideas just don't easily penetrate your skull, do they? We have a whole region to loot, a whole country, a planet if we want to. What's one village more or less? It's an investment, First Mate, an investment. Crush the resistance fast, overwhelm them, make them think only of running, not fighting. That's why we always attack these backwater planets with no technology to speak of. We go in first with weapons they can't even comprehend, firing directly with the ship's guns if need be. Then terrify them all over again when they see those robot troops. It's like being attacked by gods to them, or demons. Get the word spreading far and fast that we're invincible. Yes, we lose a few slaves and goods at the start, but after that, even human pirates will look like robots to those panicked, unthinking primitives. Makes the later stages so much easier. Go into abandoned towns and loot at will. Herd up the natives, they'll accept captivity almost with gratitude. It _usually_ works."

Piranha's eyes were lowered, he seemed to have lost the thread of the conversation. He caught himself as his body lurched a little.

Anaconda smiled acidly. "Been a long day, has it?"

Piranha's black glare latched onto him like teeth. "I'm all right."

"Good, that's good. Because you're not done yet. As I said, do things properly at the start and the job's much easier afterwards. You're going back out there now. There are several more nearby villages, you can be sure the natives have fled to some of them by this time and news is spreading fast. My scouts have reported that more of those pathetic fighters of yours are converging on the ship, which is what we expected them to do. This is the time to thoroughly crush the resistance, and along with that we need some very dramatic looting and pillaging through all the nearby settlements. _You_ remember. Just think terror, you want to spread as much of that around as quickly and with as much force as possible. Never mind the casualties. Plus, it's time the men captured a bit of loot for themselves. And you too."

"Me? I'm not-"

"Ah-ah-ah. You have to hold up your end, you know. You can't expect me to support you indefinitely."

Piranha gave him a sharp glance. The Boss met Piranha's eyes with a most filthily unpleasant grin. "Yes. And not to forget you have that delicious young girl to support as well. Do you think she eats for free? You've both been sponging shamelessly, living on my charity, it's time for you to start paying your way."

"So that's how it works," said Piranha in a low voice.

"Yes, that's how it works. Now you're going to become a pirate for real, it's a great moment, your graduation. Piranha, you don't look as enthusiastic about this as you could."

The glare of those large shadowed eyes didn't waver. "I don't think I specifically promised you enthusiasm."

"Well, now, I don't know. If you're not enjoying what you do here, then you're not really doing it. A pirate always throws himself into everything to the limit, full force - and isn't that your way too, little fluke? I expect you to keep the spirit, as well as the letter, of our agreement. Unless..." Anaconda walked up to him, smiling more broadly, holding up his baton like an admonishing finger. "It couldn't be, could it, that you're trying to back out? And after solemnly pledging your loyalty to me before the whole crew this very morning?"

If Anaconda had been any less of a robot, the look Piranha gave him would have stopped his heart. "I keep my agreements."

"What a relief. Well, then, get going."

* * *

Because it had been many hours since he'd eaten, he had taken a few moments to get some water and a small mouthful of food, though his stomach rebelled with violence even at the thought. Now, striding towards the big exit port in the lowest part of the ship, his hat pulled down over his face, he had a sudden attack of such nausea that he darted abruptly through a doorway off the corridor. He slammed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, his body bent, panting.

The persistent thought of a huge figure plunging a dagger into a native to snatch her small treasure, only to have a sword thrust through him from behind, and the trinket passing from hand to hand to hand, five times in as many minutes... And the sword in his own hand, what would be done with that?

The room was unlit except for the faint greenish emergency lighting. He palmed on the lights. No one here, nothing in the large room, only a floor covered with muddy footprints. Perhaps used for holding prisoners when first brought in. One room of many. He shut his eyes, threw his hat off irritably, turned back to lean against the door.

The nausea was turning to pain. He wondered if he'd somehow been fed poison. Sharp, ripping pain, like some taloned thing inside clawing to get out.

Then it stabbed behind his eyes, they filled with tears. He gasped.

"YOU? _Damn_ you!"

He yanked a dagger out of his vest and crouched, ready to attack.

The demon inside was tearing at him, taunting him, mocking him bitterly. He hissed back at it. "You have the nerve to curse at me? You? Yeah, make a machine, set it going, then blame it for all the destruction!"

Shuddering, he bent forward. He touched the tip of the curved knife to his trunk, to that point between chest and abdomen where was located the nexus, the main control center for the energy flows that composed his body. His teeth bared. Pressing the metal blade even fractionally into that spot, into that nausea, that pain, set off a jolt of electrical agony, sent chills and a hot flush throughout his frame. He snarled.

"You want to play rough? Let's go, brother. Come out here and fight, or I come in there after you-"

It was as though something slammed him across the head. He staggered. He pulled the knife away and, leaning his body against the door, wiped his face. Closing his eyes, he laid his hot cheek against the cold metal.

Insane. He was becoming seriously insane... The taunting demonic voice was retreating, the stabbing pain relenting a little. The tears, though, still laked in his eyes.

And another surge of rage shook him. How in the living hell could he fight an enemy he couldn't lay hands on or even see? That yanked him around like a beast on a chain, a puppet? Worse, that gave him what power he had in the first place?

Still worse, that wasn't his enemy? And which strictly speaking didn't exist.

The hand with the dagger quivered, he fought the urge to run the thing into that damned symbol, into those raging dark blue eyes, that self-righteous puppeteer's face, to bury it in the place between chest and abdomen where the Guardian's white circle had once been. His body shook as he leaned against the door.

Then slowly he straightened up. He stood there for a moment, his hand covering his forehead and eyes.

No, no. Death, insanity - relief of any kind was not permitted. He was going to go on. He was going to follow the purposes of the little purple-suited bastard, that coward, that demonic ghost who hid behind him. Obey without question the orders of the little bastard's enemy. Exist in a state that could not fail to drive any living thing mad ... but mad or sane, living thing or machine, there was nothing for him but to go on. That was simple enough, wasn't it?

For a slave, a machine, to have emotions? Ethics? Irrelevant, not to mention a serious mistake.

Joylessly, he smiled. He took the dagger still in his hand and flipped it whirling upwards. As it descended, he snatched it again, grabbing it by the naked blade. His thick leather gloves, and even more the precise delicacy of his control, prevented the razor-thin edges from slicing into his fingers. Yes, delicate work that, the perfect adjustment of pressure, speed, and judgement of opposing forces. Playing with destruction. A magic act. That's what he was, a whole circus in himself, from the roaring, tormented caged beasts to the clowns. A magic act... except that, after all, this performance wasn't exactly an act. No rehearsals, no safety net. Real props, real pain, real death. And the victims being shoved into the basket and run through with swords had never volunteered.

He replaced the knife in the vest alongside the others, that metal palisade that served as improvised armour. He was encased in, surrounded by metal. Guarded by a metal cage. Living in a world of metal... Nothing could be more alien to the little blond guy from the forest, that airy, laughing sprite of moving light; wherever he was.

He wiped his eyes. He put his hat back on his head. He put a hand on the door to open it. And glancing around the room again, he recognized it suddenly. The antechamber to a torture room... It hadn't been empty then. Yes. Back there was the inner door, the locked door. It looked like the same one.

He went out into the corridor.

[End of chapter 10, section 1]


	15. The Descent, Part 2

Nothing to add ... see notes to Part 1.

Rayman, Ly © UbiSoft Entertainment  
Rest is © me

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Chapter 10: The Descent  
Part 2: Nightmare 

It was dusk out on the planet. The huge assembly area in the lowest level of the ship, where that morning before dawn the pirates had gathered before launching the attack, was busy again, but with a very different kind of activity. Dozens of pirates were trooping through the room singly and in small groups, lugging objects taken from the planet, dragging strings of prisoners, noisily disputing with each other and with the guards. There were at least a hundred robot guards staged around the room, manning the enormous entrance port, clustering around the huge pile of booty in the center of the room, eyeing with deep suspicion any pirate who came near even to drop some off. They also surrounded the groups of prisoners huddling together in alongside the slightly curved metal walls, waiting to be herded off to the next stage of their unknown fate.

Anaconda strolled around in the middle of the room near the ever-growing pile of goods being dropped off by the returning looters, his yellow eyes intensely aglow in his black metallic face. He kept a close watch on the cold-eyed robots who patted down each pirate, frequently uncovering and confiscating more loot that had somehow failed to make it onto the pile, and also recovering the weapons that had been handed out that morning. Then each grumbling crew member was sent on through the door that led to the elevators to the upper levels of the ship. Anaconda smiled pleasantly at them as they went by.

Piranha, climbing achingly up the long gangway, paused as he came upon the scene. He looked it over for a moment before one of the guards grimly, though deferentially, motioned him forward.

Slowly he headed for the booty pile. One of the inspectors made a move towards him but jolted back as though electrocuted when Piranha's glare snapped onto him.

Piranha went to the pile and disdainfully flung onto it the sack he was carrying. 

Anaconda approached him, grinning. "For a few primitive little settlements, not a bad haul, wouldn't you say, First Mate? And most of it quite fine jewels and precious metals. Didn't I tell you these natives were perching on a treasure trove?"

Piranha looked at the pile with unconcealed disgust. "It's just pretty rocks and toys to them. They don't think it's anything special."

"Their ignorance is our gain. -What in the name of clashing gears is _this?"_ Anaconda picked up off the pile a small statuette made of shiny black rock, a delicate humanlike winged figure carved with startling skill and grace out of that brittle material and polished to a softly glowing, slightly translucent smoothness.

"Who brought this? It's nothing but volcanic glass, worthless trash." Involuntarily Piranha's hands shot forward as Anaconda impatiently flung the little statue to the floor, fracturing it. Piranha's hands dropped to his sides again. Anaconda looked at him, still annoyed. "The gewgaws some of these stupid pirates drag in, I swear they're just as ignorant as the natives. I hope you came up with something better than that rubbish."

Piranha had no reserves of diplomacy left. He only growled and turned away.

Anaconda laughed. "Ah, First Mate, you're cranky. Tired and hungry, no doubt. Well, off you go to the banquet, go refuel, recharge."

"Banquet?" Piranha had been thinking of nothing but the chance at last to go barricade himself in his cabin.

"Of course, we celebrate this grand occasion with a feast. A new invasion, quite promising so far; not to mention a new addition to our ranks, a new First Mate... quite an occasion indeed. Go to the officers' mess hall, it's on the sixth level."

***

Coming out of the elevator on the sixth floor, he was struck - smacked in the face - by the sheer volume of celebration. Even though he didn't actually see it in front of him. That whole level of the enormous ship, at least all of it within sight, seemed to consist of a number of a number of gigantic rooms, crew mess halls, off a wide central corridor. On both sides, through the big open doors, he could hear the raucous celebration of the crew. The banquet must have started hours ago, the festivities were just reaching their peak.

He walked forward into the corridor. The corridor too was filled with action - guards posted outside the mess room doors, menial robots and human slaves racing back and forth pushing giant multi-tiered rolling carts laden with plates and bottles, and the occasional happy pirate who reeled out through a door and was promptly shoved back inside by a guard. 

He hadn't taken more than a few steps when one of the menial non-humanoid robots, a small boxlike fellow rolling on many casters, trundled up to him. "First Mate?" it said, its sensor swivelling to examine the insignia on his shirt. "First Mate? Come this way, sir."

He followed it down the corridor. As he passed several doors, he could see long rows of tables and benches - at least he thought there were probably tables somewhere under that seething mass of eating, drinking, dancing, brawling, yowling humanity. The smell of food and alcohol was almost as overpowering as the noise. He knew his nerves were on edge, but this chaos wouldn't have been very pleasant even when he was well-rested and - in a saner state. 

"In here, sir." One of the robot's multiple thin, snakelike arms pointed him at a door. Piranha went in, the robot followed.

This was the officers' mess hall, and the ambience was a little less joyful, a little more restrained, though not a lot - especially closer to the door where the lower-ranking crew were. It was smaller than the other rooms, though still very large, filled right now with perhaps a hundred officers of varying grades as well as another few hundred men.

Someone had apparently made a gesture towards enlivening the battered whitish walls of the room. They were hung with what looked like ancient garlands of some flimsy stuff which might once have been colourful, but was now ragged, threadbare, and grey with dust and age. The big bare wooden tables were strewn here and there with bunches of what Piranha was able after some puzzlement to identify as tattered artificial flowers - though by now, most of them were down on the floor being trampled by the hundred or so slaves rushing about with jugs of drink and plates of food. And dominating the wall at the far end of the room, hanging over a semicircular table that was set at a ninety-degree angle to the rest and raised up a step on a low dias, was a large, grotesquely grinning deaths-head mask.

That was obviously the captain's table. As Piranha was led between the rows, now and then narrowly missing being sprayed or swatted by some unrelated bit of celebration going on nearby, and also giving small nods of acknowledgement as some of the more alert crew members noticed him and shouted a greeting or saluted, he saw that the large table had just three places set and three chairs. There was a large armchair in the center, unoccupied, and to its right slouched Hacker, looking distinctly sulky and drinking steadily. On the left of the armchair was another unoccupied place. Piranha groaned under his breath. He was going to be put there, of course. Up on display for everyone to stare at, sitting next to - 

***

"First Mate." 

He looked to his right. There, close to the aisle sat Tulik, whom he hadn't spoken to since that morning, when he had provided most of the intense briefing Piranha had received, and had helped him plan the details of the invasion. (Hacker, despite his title of Strategy Chief, had been nowhere to be found.)

Tulik rose from his seat, bowed to Piranha fractionally. Piranha returned the bow.

Despite the obvious impatience of the robot trying to guide Piranha to his seat, Tulik stood still and looked at the First Mate for some time. Piranha faced him uneasily.

"You rather surprised me today, First Mate," said Tulik finally.

Piranha didn't answer. Tulik continued to look at him. At last Piranha said, very low, "I couldn't have done it without your help, Tulik." 

The tall robot's unblinking gaze stayed on him. "Ah, no. That's not what I'm talking about."

Piranha's eyes went hot black, he turned away. And moved forward again towards his seat, the small robot urging him on.

Tulik sat back down as he passed.

***

Piranha let himself be ushered to his chair and sat in it glumly. It was rather tall for him. Its duty done, the rolling robot bustled off, clicking its retractable arms into place with what seemed like relief. Piranha waited as several servants hurried over, bringing him a heaped-up plate, then a metal goblet, then pouring it full of the mysterious intoxicating liquid drunk on the ship by both humans and robots, and then tearing off again before he had a chance to ask for some water. He glanced over at Hacker, who silently shifted his chair so he didn't have to look at Piranha, and did his best to bury his large face in a goblet. Indifferently, Piranha turned away again. He looked around the table. Unlike the others, it was covered by what was meant to be a white cloth, and the streamers and artificial flowers scattered over it looked slightly newer than the rest - they at least retained some trace of color. 

And in front of Anaconda's empty place, there was a transparent vase just large enough for the single flower it held. A real flower, a small elegant white one on a slender stem, bright enough to make the tablecloth and the walls and everything else in the room look like dirt in comparison. Where in the name of all the gods had that come from?

Picking up a fork to at least make it look like he was eating, Piranha put his attention on his plate. But at another fierce clench of his insides, his hand automatically let go of the fork, it clattered to the table. For all the noise of the room, that little metallic clang cut through him like a knife.

His head sank down a little. He let himself fall back against the chair. His gaze drifted almost unconsciously over to the flower, his eyes fixed on it. Gradually he sank into it, it swelled up, slowly smothered him in whiteness.

***

How much time passed was unclear, but at some point, roused by a change in the sound of the room, he came out of his exhausted semi-trance. The chaotic racket of the crowd had gathered into a low unanimous roar. He sat up straight and looked over the room. There was Anaconda, sweeping down the aisle toward the captain's table with a long free stride, his heavy cloak rippling behind him, smiling his most poisonously triumphant smile. A stir of applause ran through the crew as he passed by, he lifted one hand in imperious acknowledgement. He strode up to the dais and over to his chair, passing behind Piranha. Piranha glanced at him, then focused his gaze on his plate.

Anaconda was clearly in an expansive mood. He settled into his chair, took a drink from the cup a slave quickly set before him, and then leaned his right elbow on the table, resting his narrow face in his hand. Grinning, he pointed his baton at his first mate. 

"Piranha! Is this how you greet your captain? Not very friendly. I might even say, not very appreciative."

Piranha turned fierce black eyes on him but said nothing.

"You didn't even change your clothes, First Mate! Jumping crankcases, didn't it occur to you this was a formal occasion? Ah well, no matter."

Piranha's stare turned blacker, if anything, but didn't change otherwise.

Anaconda gave a soft chuckle and picked up his cup again. "You don't seem to have eaten much, Piranha. You should, this is probably the best meal you jelly bags will get till the next invasion. The cooks always pull out all the stops for a banquet." He turned to the seat on his other side. "Don't they, Second Mate? Good to know you're still alive, by the way. I was beginning to wonder."

Hacker had already straightened his chair, though he still didn't look toward Piranha. He grunted meaninglessly in reply.

"That's all right, the excuses can wait. Right now let's keep things pleasant. Hacker, haven't you congratulated Piranha on his promotion?"

Hacker sent a brief laser-like glance in Piranha's direction. _"Yes," _he muttered.

"Wonderful." Anaconda eyed the white metal robot for a moment, and Piranha could almost feel the calculation: Which was the better victim for the occasion? With an icily pleasant smile, the Boss turned back towards him. Evidently he was the winner.

"You see what I told you about Hacker, First Mate? A winsome fellow like that, how can you not love him?"

Behind his back, Hacker snarled silently and turned his chair away again. Piranha watched him grimly, also in silence. Anaconda chuckled. 

"I can hardly keep up with all this lively conversation. Piranha, try the dessert, tell me if this eating business is really all it's cracked up to be." 

Piranha had to fight back his body's instant, violent reaction against the idea of food. "I've had enough, Anaconda. Can't take any more."

"Then at least have a drink. We'll propose a toast to your success."

"Sorry, can't. Full up."

"What? A pirate who can't drink? There's no such thing, even a mere robot knows that. After a long day of pillaging and plundering, you need to unwind a bit! Pick up that cup, for ion's sake, and take a drink!"

Piranha shook his head. "No, not a good idea. We - jelly bags have our limits." Though he strove to put a casual note into his voice, to brush it all off with mild amusement, he knew that he wasn't hiding anything from the Boss.

Anaconda grinned and lifted his own cup. "Honestly, First Mate. You can be such a cheerless bore." He leaned back in his chair and took a sip. "I just don't know why I can't ever seem to find good-natured officers. They're all such gloomy, grumpy, unsocial characters. But I'm afraid you may turn out the worst of the lot. Blargh at least would take a drink with me when he wasn't trying to steal me blind. But you! When you're not out blowing up innocent people and burning their homes to the ground, you do nothing but sulk. And the stories I've heard about you! What got into you today? Hitting a poor confused pirate over the head because he went in the wrong direction! And going after another with your _sword,_ just over some little disagreement over tactics! Don't deny it, now, it wasn't Hacker who told me. And the _language!_ The terrible things you've said to the men entrusted to your command! Poor fellows, their ears must still be burning. I'm shocked, simply shocked." 

Piranha gave him a contemptuous look but remained silent. The Boss shook his head, still grinning. "Ah well. Keep working at it, I expect eventually you'll convince them you're really an officer." 

He put down his cup then and stood up, looking majestically over the room. Dramatically he shrugged his dark cloak back from his shoulders and raised his long slender arms. A stir began in the crowd, a change in the sounds of voices, the clanking of utensils and cups. "Men and robots of the _Insurrection!_" Anaconda thundered, in a tremendous voice Piranha had never heard him use before.

A cheer began at the back of the room and swelled, moving through the ranks and growing until after a minute all the crew and officers in the room were standing up, yelling, clapping, stomping on the floor, slamming their metal goblets on the tables, even clanging metal fists against on each other's metal bodies, raising a deafening racket that still wasn't enough to drown out the howls of "Anaconda! The Boss! The Boss! The Boss!"

Anaconda let it go on for a few moments after it reached its peak, then like an orchestra conductor swept down his outstretched arms to cut off the sound. There was instant silence.

He leaned forward on the table and looked at them. "Isn't this the finest collection of conquerors since time began?" They cheered. "A glorious start to the most glorious invasion this ship has ever known! You outdid yourselves today! And I fully expect you'll surpass that tomorrow!"

More howls and cheers and a stomping of feet on the floor that set all the utensils on the tables rattling. It went on for some time while the Boss stood with his arms folded, smiling with cold satisfaction.

At last he cut them off again. "And we have even more to celebrate today. You saw him swear his loyalty to me this morning, before the start of the invasion-" A cheer went up once more. Anaconda went on, "You witnessed today the inauguration of the first humanoid and alien - and former enemy, former enemy, my friends! - to seize the title of First Mate. Piranha, stand up and let them look at you."

Piranha had just been hit by another heavy spasm of nausea. He got to his feet. Then, since he was almost completely hidden by the table, he leaped up onto it. He glared out at the men with no trace of a smile.

All the same, the cheering and stomping and clanging began again, and grew and grew until it threatened to shake the decorations off the walls. Piranha was taken aback. It was no lie that he'd treated them roughly today. In fact, at times he'd been half-aware through all the chaos and confusion of events that he was deliberately trying to make them hate him. Yet now they were applauding him twice as loudly as they had Anaconda. 

At last, fighting with some effort against that palpable wall of noise, he lifted his hands and gestured much as the Boss had done, trying to quiet it down. The cheering gradually slowed, though the clapping and pounding on the floors and tables continued, and now and again swelled up once more and cheering broke out irrepressibly. Piranha glanced at Anaconda. The Boss was scowling. Hastily, the First Mate made an abrupt, fierce gesture, and the applause finally quit.

But a few voices continued to call out, easily heard now. "The quickest invasion ever, he knows what he's doing!" "Didn't stand for any nonsense!" "Hardly any men lost!" "A _great_ first mate!" "Stopped a native from bashing in my head, what other officer would do that?" "Blargh never gave a damn!" And so on, more shouts, more stomping, and the cheering threatened to go out of control again.

Standing there on the table, trembling at the end of his endurance, about to tumble over the brink, Piranha felt his vision blurring again. Some of the fierce tension visible in his stance relented. "Men," he said. "Don't talk like that." He sighed quietly. "I saw you fight. You did what I expected. And I fought along with you. I'm as much a pirate as any of you now."

Another cheer began, and despite his efforts it swelled up like a flooding river, overflowed and went on and on until at last, with a furious motion, he finally managed to silence it. 

He grinned bitterly. "Enough! Enough hooting from you gorillas. Don't waste your time. A pirate's life is hard and short. At least a human pirate's life is." He gestured around the room. "This is the reward you get. Make the most of it." And he jumped off the table.

There was another surge of stomping, guffawing and cheering. Then the clanking of cups and plates recommenced as the crew sat back down and returned to the important business of converting their bloodstreams as nearly as possible to pure alcohol. Piranha slumped in his chair, shutting his eyes.

"What a remarkable demonstration." He heard Anaconda's soft, acid voice beside him. "How odd. Only a day or two ago they were after your blood. Yet today they adore you as though you'd handed them all a pile of treasure. Of course, they're a fickle bunch of brutes, but still, to see a mass display of such appalling disloyalty..."

Piranha took hold of the table edge, his eyes still closed. The room was swirling, his body was shaky. A sensation of utter unreality settled over him. Could he really be here? Wearing these clothes, surrounded by these strangers, conversing with a loathsome enemy? A desperate urgency to wake up, to throw off this insane dream took hold of him, for an instant he struggled to fight his way out of it, to open his eyes once again in the real world, to see the anxious but smiling faces of his friends wondering why he'd slept so long. 

His friends... his dead friends. 

With a faint gasp, he forced open his fierce black eyes, clenched his teeth, glowered at Anaconda with an intensity that made the robot stop talking and smile.

"Ah, Piranha," he said, much more in his usual silky tone, "Even a banquet and the adulation of a thousand fools isn't enough to improve your temper. Well, since you seem to be finished here, come with me."

He smiled again. Involuntarily, Piranha drew back a little.

[End of Chapter 10, part 2]


	16. The Descent, Part 3

****

Chapter 10: The Descent  
Part 3: Hallucination 

As they came out of the elevator, Anaconda abruptly grabbed Piranha's collar and, jerking him forward, set off in long rapid strides down the lengthy doorless hall, moving with an eagerness very unlike his usual restrained, languid manner. Piranha trotted quickly alongside, having to run to keep up, alarmed and perplexed and infuriated. The Boss's hand kept an insultingly tight grip on his coat as they hurried through that grey metal corridor, swept around a corner, and sped down the next hall. What, did Anaconda think he was going to run away?

Then through his haze of irritation, it struck him with a shock: They were on one of the lowest levels of the ship, just above the intake level where the prisoners and booty was brought in. He'd been on this level before, but at the other end, the bow of the ship; this time he was approaching from an unfamiliar direction, from the stern. This was the lower of the two levels of the ship where the slave quarters were. And this was the level where the room upon room, row upon row of grey punishment boxes lurked. They were rapidly approaching. Involuntarily, his body stiffened a little, he hesitated. The hand on his collar almost yanked him off his feet as the Boss continued his swift pace. Piranha stumbled and had to bound forward to catch up. He began to pant.

The long corridor ended at last in a metal door. Several guards posted there straightened up hastily as the Boss came into sight. One of them hurriedly unlocked and opened the door, and jumped aside barely in time to avoid a collision with Anaconda, who didn't slow his pace even fractionally. Piranha heard the door being locked again behind them as they entered the next section.

The first thing that struck Piranha, even before his eyes took in the scene, was the smell, and then the harsh glare of the lighting, reflected even more harshly by the metallic floor and walls. Then the noise of several thousand moving bodies and voices, much amplified and chaotically re-echoed by the smooth shape and hard surfaces of the place. It was a huge, bare, open room, supported here and there by thick metal pillars. There were some openings into corridors along the walls, patrolled by robot guards; other than that, the space was simply a slightly curved rectangle, no divisions, no furnishings. Anaconda plunged straight down the center of the room without slowing. 

The room itself was crowded with ragged, dirty, mostly humanoid slaves, sitting on the floor in small groups or sleeping in heaps, often clustering around the pillars. The noise and long-unwashed smell of the place and its inhabitants was heavily oppressive. It was late evening by ship time, and some of the slaves were carrying handfuls of food they apparently had brought in from somewhere for themselves, or to give to others. There were men, women, and children of all ages, though probably three or four times as many women as men, and more old men than young ones. 

Piranha had never been in the slave quarters before. As he was hauled rapidly along, he stared around the place, looking at the subdued, apathetic faces around him, almost unconsciously drawn to see if he recognized any, if there were any forgotten remnants here of beings from his own planet, or any of the tanned, blond-haired people from the villages they had just invaded. But in fact, although these people evidently represented a large sampling of sizes, colours, and shapes of humanoid species from many different planets, there was something about them, the weariness, dirt, and discouragement, that seemed to melt them all down into an indistinguishable, anonymous mass.

Yet Piranha also caught glimpses of something beyond that, of individual actions and touches of emotion. A female slave handing out food to a cluster of children of many different species, who crowded eagerly around her clamoring like baby birds. A group of young female slaves sitting together combing and plaiting each others' black, brown, white, golden, red, or dark blue hair. A male slave coming in and putting his arms around a female who hurried to meet him, both of them smiling as though they belonged to each other and not to that robot yanking a small limbless alien through the room. 

Piranha couldn't help noticing a number of intimate acts and functions being performed that in most places would not have been seen in public, though they occurred here without attracting the slightest notice from either the many guards patrolling the room or from the other slaves. Irrepressibly, images of familiar faces superimposed onto those unknown slave bodies, pictures of his old friends and companions reaching such a brutalized state that nothing mattered to them any more ... He winced and averted his face.

It was a long walk through the huge room, despite their fast pace. After some fifteen minutes, the activity around them began to change. They were approaching the bulkhead forming the front end of the room, and there was a stream of newly captured natives being brought in through the large double door in the center of it. 

The front door was heavily guarded, and there were many more guards, mostly robots, stationed along the walls and scattered through the area. But the captives being brought in, dirty, some bloody, some needing help to stand, were bowed, subdued, looking terrified and exhausted, few of them showing any spark of rebellion. Most clung to each other in twos and threes and fours, friends or family groups. As they advanced under the watchful eyes of the guards, ship's slaves converged on them and began to check them for weapons or goods, sometimes confiscating items. They separated the groups and sent the members in different directions, passing them on to other ship's slaves who escorted them out into the corridors at the sides of the room, for what purpose Piranha could only guess at. Some of the captives became unruly as they were separated, and guards with stun devices or clubs stepped in immediately, efficiently quashing any attempt at rebellion before it got started.

Approaching this area, Piranha was jerked nearly off his feet, backward this time - Anaconda had unexpectedly slowed. Piranha glanced up at the Boss in confusion.

Anaconda had his eyes on a human guard who was pushing around a newly captured young female, though as far as Piranha could see she hadn't tried to make any trouble. The guard was simply entertaining himself, shoving her back so she almost fell, knocking her small bag of possessions out of her hands, grabbing at her in ways that made her cringe and cover her face or give a small cry of pain and horror. He was grinning, and saying things to her that were lost in the noise of the room. Though she surely didn't understand a word of his language, his meaning was likely as clear to her as it was to Piranha across all that distance. Other new captives were watching too, huddling together with anguished, fearful faces. A few other human guards paused to watch as well, pointing and laughing. The robot guards glanced at the noise, then turned away without interest.

Piranha looked at Anaconda's face. The Boss's yellow eyes seemed almost detached from his dark face, they glowed with such intensity. As he walked he watched the guard avidly, a small, strange smile on his face. In the metal grip that still held onto him, Piranha felt a change, a sudden tension. And involuntarily, without thinking, without even knowing what he was doing, Piranha snarled, writhed like a wild animal to get away, nearly tore himself out of Anaconda's grasp.

The Boss, as if startled out of a trance, glared down at him. He scowled, tightened his grip on the collar, getting a handful of the shirt underneath as well, and yanked Piranha forward, speeding up his pace again. Piranha couldn't see what was happening to the captive any more, but even over the noise in the room for a little while he could still hear the laughter, the shouting and joking, and her gasps. He was shaking now. The cascade of bitter, savagely contradictory thoughts and impulses that swept through him made it hard to keep his footing or even see where he was going. 

And then, breaking through the mental chaos that half-blinded him, something caught his attention. A small, slender, golden-brown form in a tattered brown cloak, quite a distance away, intermittently hidden behind other, taller bodies. Elly. Like some of the other ship's slaves she was inspecting incoming captives, coming up to one at a time, quickly going over their clothes and possessions if they had any, checking them for injuries, sending them on to other slaves who led them away. Though there was no roughness in the way she handled the prisoners, even at that distance it was clear that no trace of emotion was visible on her face or in her motions, only a calm, detached purposefulness.

Again Piranha tried to jerk out of Anaconda's grip. A panicked urge to hide took hold of him, he struggled for an irrational moment only to get on Anaconda's other side, further way from Elly. Anaconda gave him an impatient yank that lifted him right off the floor. As he stumbled and recovered, he glanced across the crowd over at Elly again. She was paying no attention, she hadn't even noticed them passing through. She was too far away, and too intent on her work.

Another slave near her pulled a baby out of the arms of a wailing female captive. The mother was yanked away by a guard, the baby was taken to yet another slave who seemed to be collecting a nursery of infants and small children. 

As Piranha watched, trying not to lose his footing, Elly finished the task she was doing then quickly walked over to the nursery. The slave in charge was busy taking in another child, Elly slipped behind her, grabbed the infant, and at a run quickly caught up with the mother, who was being consoled by other captives as they moved toward the exit. She shoved the baby into its mother's arms, covering it firmly with the woman's loose outer garment, and hurried away again. The robot guards, if they noticed, didn't seem to care. Elly was back at her work in a moment, as calm and steady as before.

Anaconda gave Piranha another yank to straighten him out - he was running almost backwards by now - and he lost sight of her. He looked ahead. They were nearly up to the exit now, approaching the stream of captives coming through the door. On the other side of that wall, through that door, was the front half of the level. The series of rooms where the coffins, the grey concrete boxes were. 

The guards ushered them through the big double door. On the other side of it, Anaconda slowed; for the first time he came to a stop. Piranha, still in his grip, glanced around and then closed his eyes. He couldn't quell the shaking of his body. He could feel that Anaconda perceived it. He could feel Anaconda smiling, he could feel the hot chill of that smile right through the metal hand on his collar and the metal arm that bound him to that metal body and linked him as if by an electrical connection directly into the glowing, overheated coil that was Anaconda himself. 

Piranha took in a long breath. He forced his eyes open. 

If the slave quarters had been a sprawling disorganized chaos, on the other side of the wall, although that room was also very large, everything was stifling, crushed, rigid and compressed. For an instant, the first time he ever saw the place flashed through his nerves - himself, numb hands clamped to his body and fastened behind his back, reeling with weakness, barely able to stand even being half held up by a guard; slaves hurriedly pushing captive after captive into the boxes; Anaconda striding possessively through the rows of anonymous grey coffins set in orderly lines stretching into the distance, like a military cemetery. 

The horror permeating the place, the weight of suffering - he felt it even more now than he had then, he felt it with a hundred times the intensity. It was part of him now. He knew now everything those boxes meant.

Anaconda, still clutching Piranha's collar, stood for a few moments and surveyed the room. He glanced down at the small figure beside him.

"Look familiar, First Mate?" 

Piranha didn't answer, didn't look at him. 

"I expect you'll be pleased. We didn't have many war prisoners today. As you said, these people are too inept to defend themselves; so, not many enemies requiring, ah, retribution."

Piranha glanced around the room. Hundreds of boxes filled it, and at the far wall an open doorway showed another identical room beyond, another of the many rooms full of boxes taking up more than half the level of the enormous ship. 

He looked them over intently, his lips drawn back in a slight grimace. He didn't know, couldn't tell, could not remember, had no idea where his had been. Which of those identical coffins had held, for that brief but eternal time, his own paralyzed, suffocating frame? Which one of these things had wrenched apart his body and his soul? Which of these rooms was it in? Was someone else in it now? He glanced up at Anaconda. Anaconda knew.

It didn't matter which one, of course, it made no difference. It made no difference at all. But still Piranha couldn't stop staring at the boxes, couldn't stop groping through the frayed memories, through the terrible weakness and confusion of that time; struggling to lay hold of a moment lost in a dying blur. Which one of these thousands of boxes all alike had it been? Why couldn't he recognize it? Why didn't it stand out to him like a beacon? 

He looked up again at the Boss, and Anaconda turned his angular face down to look back at him, smiling slightly, his yellow eyes gleaming as they had when they were turned on that small suffering thing held tight in its coffin. 

Piranha lowered his head. He said nothing.

Anaconda smiled a little more.

***

A guard on the far side of the room near the door motioned to Anaconda, and the Boss, still with Piranha in his grip, strode forward. They passed into the next room full of boxes. Several empty coffins close to the door had their lids removed, and five or six slaves were working frantically about each one. Anaconda felt Piranha's instinctive jerk backwards and yanked him forward so hard the cloth of his coat partly gave way with an audible rip. Anaconda grabbed at him again, those metal fingers digging into his flesh as well as his clothes. Piranha gasped. 

"Come along," the Boss hissed. "Scared you're going back into one of those boxes? Calm down, that wasn't my plan."

Piranha's jerk away hadn't been based on anything so coherent as fear of going back into the box. He went where he was led. His struggle now was to keep from fighting, to force himself not to resist. As he had done all day, as he would have to do for the rest of his life... 

And he saw the half-naked, exhausted prisoners slumped against the wall. Five blond, tanned men, their hands tied behind them, looking considerably more bruised and beaten than he recalled seeing them on the planet. One of them in particular he recognized, the tall, long-haired, handsome young warrior he himself had captured on the planet. 

His body went cold, he stumbled, he almost blacked out. It had never crossed his mind, he'd thought he was capturing a _slave,_ it had just not occurred to him, he thought he'd been - he'd imagined he was committing an act of _mercy_ by taking the boy alive.

Never, he would never make that mistake again, he- 

Anaconda dragged him over to peer into the open coffins, with their complex internal machinery, all the things he had never gotten much of a look at before. He did his best not to look now. The slaves were just finishing their work of preparing the boxes for use. Now, while Anaconda and Piranha stood a little way off, two guards took hold of the long-haired young man and brought him over towards the coffin closest to the Boss.

The prisoner seemed weak, only half-conscious, he certainly had no clear idea of what was about to be done to him. All the same, the situation was alarming, and he struggled with the robots as they marched him implacably up to stand beside the box. His blue eyes glanced around the room, they caught sight of Anaconda, and then Piranha. He fastened his gaze on Piranha, something at least he recognized.

Piranha couldn't look at him. He turned his head. He heard the prisoner give a slight gasp as the paralyzing shot was given to him just before he was lifted into the box.

And Anaconda let go of his trunk, took hold of the back of his head, and with smooth, gently vicious forcefulness turned it so that he had no choice but to watch, unless he closed his eyes.

Piranha watched as the slaves fastened the prisoner in, hooked him up, started the silent machinery underneath the box, checked the external indicators showing the prisoner's physical condition, made adjustments... He watched. In truth, he had no right to shut his eyes to any of it. 

All the same, after a moment, he whispered, "Why - why in the box? Why not keep him as a - a slave, such a good - specimen?"

"Ah, Piranha, you know better. This one distinctly belongs in the box. Specimens like him make worthless slaves, they just can't learn. The box, however, might open them to new ideas. Surely you see my point; you of all people should be familiar with his type."

After a moment, as the slaves were sliding the heavy concrete cover of the coffin into place, and Piranha remained silent, Anaconda went on. 

"It was a rather clever thing you did, weaseling your way out of that torture. You know you're the only one? You should have taken the chance to give that _specimen_ of yours a few pointers on bargaining. Though, factually, his bargaining position isn't too similar to yours. After all... let's be blunt, your world wasn't good for much. Some pretty architecture and scenery, what the hell use are those to a pirate? While admiring the view, we could grub around for a week and scarcely come up with a decent sackful of gold and jewels. Your planet frankly wasn't going to repay the outrageous effort it was costing to defeat it. 

"If it hadn't been for seeing a remarkable thing like you - Demagnetization! we might have just cut our losses, packed up and left. But, well! A couple of handfuls of your dismembered type would have made my fortune for the next galactic cycle. Talk about a rarity, my dear Rayman. But they turned out to be rare indeed; however much we scoured the planet for more, we never found _one_. All we came up with was that plague of ridiculous frog things, and those skinny bluish cigar-faced monstrosities, more and more ridiculous creatures, each more bizarre than the last - curiosities, perhaps, but short me out, I'm not in the zoo supply business! Hardly a worthwhile slave to be found except for a few annoying magical creatures - _cat_ fairies and suchlike nonsense - which are far too much trouble to handle. 

"Incidentally, I must say I find it peculiar that you fought so hard and so long for beings that weren't even of your own kind. Creatures I'm sure even you can recognize as inferior to yourself in intelligence, abilities, even physical durability. All you really needed to do was disappear and become as elusive as the rest of your species. An odd mentality you have.

"In any case, you see this poor fellow's situation is quite different. His people are plentiful, easy to handle, and conventionally handsome - exactly what the market wants, they're going to bring fabulous prices. And even the children's toys on this planet can be worth thousands. After a run of remarkably bad fortune, at last we've hit the jackpot. I consider it only poetic justice that you've played an admirable part in changing our luck."

For several long minutes, as the Boss stood beside him gripping his collar again, Piranha didn't stir. He was struggling, suffocating. As if he had not already nearly drowned under relentless waves of memory all that day, now a new tide, one horrified thought after another, crashed over him. He'd been defeated far more thoroughly than he'd known. If they'd never _seen_ him - his species - and to think he'd thought he'd at least - they might have - all that fighting, all that suffering - Was the bastard even telling the _truth?_

Unbearable thoughts, he thrust them away at last, and instead seized on one that had been stabbing at him ever since he'd caught sight of that sleeping village. 

__

"Luck? You hit the jackpot? What are you talking about? None of this, nothing this ship does makes sense! You could have _bought_ all the trinkets you wanted from these people for practically nothing. All the gold and jewels you could carry! You only needed to ask them. You could have made an easy fortune without fighting, killing, destroying, and without losing your own men. What would you _need_ with slaves? How can it possibly be more profitable to-"

Anaconda's glowing eyes widened with cold joy. Again he took hard, painful hold of the back of Piranha's head and forced those dark fierce eyes to look up into his own.

"Money isn't everything, little freak. No, there are some greater pleasures in life even than money. And you're good enough to provide me with a few." He grinned, and his metal fingers squeezed Piranha's head so hard he thought for a moment his skull would crack; the strength went out of him, his eyesight darkened. Then the hand let go. Momentarily, Piranha halfway collapsed. Breathing hard as he straightened up again, he looked away from the Boss. The burning hatred that had been growing and growing all through that day was a roaring furnace now, hotter than he could endure, it filled his brain, it blinded his vision, it almost stopped his breath.

But though it nearly cracked him in half to hold his fists back, to attack Anaconda was out of the question. Quite aside from the large number of heavily armed guards prowling the area, quite aside from the little he'd be able to accomplish without energy shots in the time he'd have to do it; quite aside from his own deep-seated, nearly physical revulsion against going back on a promise, any promise... Rayman had made a deal. Piranha was the price being paid. Nothing Anaconda had just said changed that. If Piranha deviated in the slightest from Rayman's agreement, Anaconda would be delighted to take revenge on that distant little glowing green jewel, lost somewhere out in black space. As he had said, money wasn't everything.

For all his many years of fighting enemies, Rayman had never known true, poisonous, soul-curdling hate. But it looked like Piranha was not going to know very much else.

***

They watched the other prisoners go one by one into their boxes. Then Anaconda turned to his First Mate once more.

"Business concluded for today," he smiled. "Time to celebrate!" 

Piranha failing to respond, Anaconda went on. "I don't get down here nearly as often as I'd like; I save it for special occasions. Now come with me."

Though Anaconda had finally released his grip, Piranha turned with him as though on a leash. He trudged after the Boss silently, eyes lowered. They went into the next of the rooms full of coffins. Again, there was a large number of slaves working frantically around the boxes, apparently maintaining ones that were already occupied. There was no doubt that they were occupied; Piranha could feel the palpable oppression around him.

Anaconda was springing quickly along with the uncharacteristic liveliness that had begun at the banquet. He paused at last beside one of the boxes.

"I haven't been here in quite some time. These were from... ah, yes, that mountainous, volcanic planet. Very rich in diamonds. The natives weren't good for much but physical labor though. Uppity, too."

There were two tall human slaves, a male and a female, busy with machinery a few boxes away. "You two, get over here and lift this cover," Anaconda barked at them. Stopping what they were doing, they approached. The female went to the end near Anaconda, the male to the opposite end, closer to Piranha. Together they unsealed the clamps securing the heavy lid and then carefully began to lift it out of the groove that held it in place and shift it to the side.

And simultaneously, as the lid slid back a fraction they both dropped it, and Piranha staggered back. As Anaconda looked around in confusion, more human slaves and guards nearby cried out.

"Oh my god, _close it! Close it!"_

"Close it!" cried Piranha, gagging, hands to his mouth. "Close it, for god's sake, whatever's in there is dead!"

__

"What?" roared Anaconda. Dropping his baton, he easily lifted the lid himself and looked inside, over the protests of all the humans in the room. His eyes blazed red, and he slammed the lid shut.

In the same motion, without a pause, he swung his metal fist furiously at the slave a few feet away from him. Almost before she saw it coming, before she could even gasp, it caught her on the side of the head with a loud crack, her head snapped back, and her body crumpled instantly to the floor.

And as the tall, muscular male slave surged past him towards Anaconda's back, Piranha seized him by the arm and around the waist, planted his feet, and with teeth clenched froze him in place. There was a silent, strenuous but brief struggle. Then, his body quivering with fury but unable to move, the man subsided. 

As Anaconda, his eyes still red, turned back towards them, Piranha tightened his grip on the male slave even more, clenching him so hard he gasped with pain. Then pushed him firmly, with a fierce warning look, back towards the end of the box away from Anaconda. The slave, rubbing his bruised skin and glowering, rage still visible in the bulging muscles of his neck and jaw, nevertheless did back reluctantly away; at least he didn't try again to make the useless, self-destructive gesture of attacking the Boss.

Piranha gave him one last glare and turned towards Anaconda, subtly interposing his body between the robot and the human. 

Anaconda, however, showed no sign of going after the other slave, and even seemed a little flustered, picking up his baton from the floor, shrugging his red cape behind him, stretching out his metal hands. His eyes, yellow again, avoided Piranha's gaze. "These savages," he muttered. "No matter how often you make an example of one, they still can't learn their jobs." He turned abruptly and walked rapidly to the next row of coffins, stepping unheedingly over the body of the female slave as though it was a broken piece of equipment.

"This looks like a better place to start," he said gruffly, stopping at another coffin. Carefully, however, he checked the life support indicators on the end of the box. Apparently reassured, he unclamped the lid himself and lifted it, peering inside. And his body seemed to relax, as though he'd given a sigh of relief. 

Piranha was watching him, eyebrows raised. He glanced briefly back at the male slave. He'd gone over to the female's body now, along with several others who clustered around and tenderly began to straighten it preparatory to carrying it away, whispering among themselves. Piranha looked back at Anaconda. He was giving peremptory orders to other nearby slaves; as though the incident had never happened.

All the same, he still didn't look at Piranha. The joy, even the joy of needling his first mate, seemed to have gone out of the occasion for him.

Piranha eyed him closely. Was it possible that Anaconda was ashamed? Embarrassed?

Perhaps. Not at having committed a pointless murder on an innocent person, no, but perhaps at having lost his self-control. Didn't he carry that baton precisely so his blows wouldn't kill? 

That perception must have been visible in Piranha's cold eyes, for Anaconda dismissed him not very long afterwards.

"All right, little First Mate, you've done your work for today. I can see you don't fully appreciate what's going on here. Not used to being on the _winning_ side of the transaction, eh? After spending a hard year losing to us. But don't worry. Being a pirate is by far the easier way. It soon becomes completely automatic, no effort at all. You'll get to like it. You'll see."

[End of Chapter 10, Part 3]


	17. The Descent, Part 4

__

The last part of Chapter 10, finally. Things should calm down after this... Although I doubt I'll be able to get another chapter up for quite a while.

By the way, I know all Rayman fans have their own ideas about the relationships of the characters and some might not like what they see in this chapter. I'm sorry, kinda, but, well, I have my ideas too. Bear with me! 

Rayman, Ly © UbiSoft Entertainment

The rest © me, who else.

****

Chapter 10: The Descent  
Part 4: Hell

He opened the door of his cabin. It was empty. Thank the gods for one small mercy. The faint greenish lighting by the bathroom was visible, and without turning on any other light he trudged across the floor towards the bed. On the way there, unthinkingly, like a snake tearing out of an old skin he threw off his hat, boots, sword, gun, jacket, vest, even his shirt, leaving on only the black bodysuit that covered his trunk. At which point he reached the bed and flung himself onto it face down. For a time he lay still, hardly breathing, his eyes open. Then his eyes closed. 

    In darkness, held on his back, held motionless, white fire running through him, suffocating- 

    He plunges through the night forest into the shadows between the trees, gasping for breath, low-hanging branches like more shadows turned solid to strike his face, even his home territory turning against him. The heavy clumping footsteps too close behind, converging on both sides, growling mechanical voices - he tears through the underbrush, the darkness seared now and again by ugly light as weapons fire, he sprints ahead, making for the edge of the forest, the cliff, they can't follow him over the cliff. A red beam explodes in a massive tree ahead, the way it tore into the two friends beside him - the tree groans, topples burning across his path - he leaps over it, somersaulting through the flames, runs - 

    They've dared to gather at last, a surreptitious meeting in the mountains in a small clearing sheltered by big rocks, the few who are left, leaders of the resistance, speaking in low voices, wary. There's little of help to say, but it heartens them to see each other, to know who is still alive - along with the despair of seeing who isn't. 

    He speaks to them all soothingly, smiling, they embrace each other, they exchange what information they have, none of it is good. Which villages the damnable robots have overwhelmed, what they've plundered, who they've captured. Who _haven't _they captured?

    Ly... they've captured Ly. They look at him apprehensively as he hears this for the first time. He's quiet for a moment. Then brushes it aside.

    Yes, that's bad news, just when you thought the news couldn't get any worse.

    The energy beams when they hit are like enormous fists, bigger than his body, as if swung by a team of giants; they smash the breath out of him, hit him again before he can take another, knock him halfway down, slam him back as he starts up again, hit him again, pound him back against the rocky face of the cliff, there's nowhere to go, he's flailing, suffocating, he lunges again into that wall of red fire - 

    In the mountains, as night falls, the meeting is ambushed - without warning, a barrage of energy shots, two friends smashed instantly, the screams of others wounded -

    He, firing back with his own energy shots, leaps up and flees, shooting, yelling, drawing the pursuit - 

    Scrambling through the rocks, splashing through a shallow stream into the forest, the sight of his friends' deaths still before his eyes, hearing the heavy feet after him, seeing the blasts striking around him - the desperation, the weariness, the fury.
    Flinging himself over the edge of the vertical cliff, first in free fall, then he catches himself with the helicopter and descends slowly. Looking down, he sees converging lights on the ground far below, the enemy, fifty or more of them, it's a trap, they're going to pin him against the mountain. They've finally managed to organize... A white net of spotlights closes round him as he descends. He struggles to move further out, to land beyond the pincer closing in on him, but he's moving too slowly and the circle is too wide, and even turning off the helicopter briefly and dropping irregularly, he can't get out of their sight for more than a moment. The strong lights dazzle his eyes; blasts erupt out of the whiteness, jolting him, he fires blindly back as he descends, blue and red and gold and green energy shots sizzling in both directions. Into the glare he shoots; his lips draw back in a dark grin at a spectacular explosion below. Too many of them, far too many... but there will be less by the time they get him, there'll be a lot less of them.

    The unyielding metal hand strokes his chin, caressing the back of his head, forcing his face upward to meet yellow eyes that glow out of a black face - a touch like acid, like fire - his eyesight darkens - 

    

Fixed in place as if by a hundred metal hands, he can't twitch, he can't breathe, he can only open his eyes and see nothing... utterly disoriented, no way to know which way he faces, what is touching him, he has no sensation anymore, no idea where his extremities are or if he even still has them... his body defined only by the fire running through it. 

    

And it swells, it swells up as if he were transformed into a blazing ghost, invisible but huge, cramming up against the inside of the box, bursting out into infinity, into an endless, featureless, airless black void made of searing white pain - 

His eyes opened with a start. He choked in a breath. Then lay still, staring into the darkness, listening to himself breathe. 

The room was quiet, soundless except for his own hard breaths. He turned his head a little.

And realized abruptly that he was on his back, his head pulled stiffly up, his hands and feet frozen in the position they'd been held in, in the - 

He moaned, his body jerked, he rolled over, involuntarily his hands grabbed onto the sheet and blanket to hold him in place, on his front, on his front, as if those feeble bits of cloth could resist that massive force turning him back.

The light blue eyes in that battered human face that had fixed on him, uncomprehending. Too stunned, too overwhelmed even to accuse. The grey eyes in a child's face. The delicate little black statue. The white flower... The huddled, faceless, colourless shapes, clinging together: prisoners, still in shock from seeing friends and family die, not knowing what came next, not knowing how long this torment of waiting would last. Women, children... the timeless fate of women and children, so seldom a quick clean death for them.

He shut his eyes. A heavy wave of sleep towed him back under. Asleep, from time to time he still moaned.

***

The door creaked open and she slipped into the cabin. There was only the faint greenish emergency lighting, and she waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

There he was sprawled on the bed on his stomach, not covered against the chill, motionless. For him not to have woken when she came in, he must have been far past exhaustion. No wonder - he had hardly slept for days now. And the first day of an invasion, so much hard work... 

Elly moved softly across the room towards the bed. Picking up his things that were strewn over the floor, as though they'd run off him like water as he went towards the bed. She laid his clothes and weapons on a chair. Yes, he must have been very tired, it wasn't like him to be so careless.

As she approached him, she could dimly make out his face. The springy yellow hair, moving faintly with his breathing, the weak light playing on it. The large, tightly closed eyes, the tense, battered face. It was like seeing him for the first time all over again, he had looked just like that. He was wearing only the black bodysuit that covered his trunk, but she could almost see that old pink bathrobe swathed around him.

So much like the way he'd been. The palpable, nearly physical anguish that clung around him, that permeated the room, the sorrow that went through her bones like radiation. She was startled, seeing for the first time how much she herself had changed. Back then, it had taken hold of her without her awareness. She'd responded automatically to a state, a sensation, that she couldn't name, couldn't understand, and couldn't distinguish from her own. 

Now she could look at him and perceive the sorrow in him, quite separate from what she felt. And she could understand that she felt, on her own account, for her own reasons, sorrow... How sharply, suddenly, she did feel it. How forcefully the sight of him moved her. How much she ... how much she missed him. 

He shifted a little on the bed, not waking, he made a slight sound. The anguish gripped her by the throat. Was he hurt? There was so much pain in his motion, in the sound. He looked so defeated.

Almost without volition, like the first time, she stretched out a hand to touch him, his outstretched hand. "Rayman," she murmured.

He shot off the bed like a rocket, slamming her to the floor. Then froze, his hands gripping her shoulder and neck. She hadn't even managed to cry out. She lay still, the side of her face pressed to the floor, her pale eye on him like a trapped animal's. A tremor went through him, visibly.

He got up. He picked up her limp body - despite her momentary resistive jerk. He put her on the bed. Then he went to the galley and got a wet cloth. He returned and laid it on her temple over the bruise that was already starting to form.

Her eyes were still on him. Sitting down on the bed beside her, he averted his own gaze; he pressed the cold cloth gently against her head.

After a moment, she brushed the cloth and his hand away and sat up. She swayed a little, putting a hand to her head. Then she got off the bed. She took a few steps, bent to pick up her fallen cloak. Silently she wrapped it around herself.

He was still sitting on the bed, his head lowered. 

"I'm not supposed to be here," she said. "I came to see if you needed anything."

He raised his head a little but didn't quite look at her. "Elly," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Elly ... Please... That name. You mustn't use that name."

Her sombre eyes on him. "Use that name?" she said quietly. "Never again." She went out the door.

He remained where he was for some time, eyes still lowered. Then he sank onto the bed, pulled a blanket over himself. He lay for a while blinking in the darkness. Then gradually, he was pulled back under, dragged down again into the black.

    She's gone, she's gone, each soft footstep another knife into his paralyzed frame. If he could run after her, bring her back... but he's frozen, he can't move. A fierce grip holding him ... 

    He stirs. His head and body throbbing with the aftereffects of the energy blasts ... those final few minutes when he had been downed, when the pincer had closed in on him, all of them firing, firing, firing... when he had finally crumbled into that enveloping hell of red and gold flame, when he'd known that he was dead. 

    And with a jolt, he grasps he's alive. Lying face down in the dirt, blind ... big metal feet clumping past nearby, the sounds of prisoners' voices, captors'... he can't more than twitch ... his cheek pressed into the dust ... something covering his eyes ... his feet strapped uncomfortably, awkwardly against his body... his hands - somewhere ... Inconceivably, they've taken him alive. For the first time since the start of that long, ghastly war, panic lurches in him. Why would they take him alive?

    He locates his hands, bound behind him, pressed hard together and crushed against his back. A solid, tight constriction around his body, the distasteful twang of metal, his hands compressed under it somehow. 

    He can't tell how strong the bonds are. Weak as he is, he lets off a small experimental shot from one hand - and chokes. Strangling on a scream, trembling, in shock. The energy not only lacerated his hands, their palms pressed tightly together, but seared through the metal band around his waist like a laser cutting him in half.

    He's failed, he's failed so utterly... His people with no one to turn to now. They'll go on fighting, bravely, heartbreakingly, and one by one they will be taken, all of them, all. What's the use to say he did everything he could? It wasn't enough.

    He clenches his teeth. Gathering what's left of his strength, he begins to build up in each hand an energy charge, the strongest he can muster. The two charges repel each other, vibrating his trapped hands hard in their bonds, shaking his whole body, tightening like a knot of fire the band around him, and raking his back with whitehot discharges like sheet lightning. Either he'll blast himself free, forcing the guards to cut him down, or the blast itself will kill him. Either way. What does he face otherwise? And what will he have to see done to others because of his failure, all because he failed them, he failed.

    His teeth clattering now with the vibration of his body, the charges burning, flaring, slipping in his hands, he can't hold them, the metal around his hands is searing hot, his body is a leaf in a vortex of fire, he can't hold on, a flash of terror, this will kill him, he can't hold on - 

    It snatched his small trunk up in its massive claws, plunged the two long fiery blades of its thumbs together through the white circle on his black body, ripped him apart

    as he spat into its sulfurous face, "They're still free! They're still free! _They're still free!"_

    and fell headlong into the inferno

    The meadow was brilliant green, scattered with tufts of shimmering, gemlike flowers. At the edge of the woods he stood on the grass, looking up into the soft white and blue of the sky, pearl and opal and aquamarine. The suns clasped him in their golden hands, caressing him with such a joy, such a relief of gentle warmth that he closed his eyes and lowered his head, almost in tears. 

    Then _thump,_ he was felled by a startling force, pinned to the ground. He flailed with his hands and feet, his head muffled by a unseen weight. But though half-choked, he laughed; he heard a light, tumbling, echoey laughter caroming along with his. 

    He got hold of her tail and yanked. A protesting squeal, he felt momentary claws in his hand. Ouch! He laughed again.

    With a rush he flung his feet and lower body upwards, somersaulted backwards, bowling her off his head, and he had hold of her now, a writhing sinuous bundle he could scarcely keep a grip on. They tumbled over and over on the grassy hill. Then she broke free, bolted off on all fours into the woods, flexible as a squirrel, bushy tail bouncing behind her. He surged after.

    They chased back and forth through the tree trunks, the foliage and fallen branches, doubling back on one another, reversing the direction of pursuit, one bursting out from behind a tree and startling the other one into the air, one launching a kamikaze leap from a low branch and barely missing, both lunging at once from concealment, smacking into each other and rolling away stunned and laughing deliriously. At last, he tackled her at the edge of the forest, made a flying pounce, missed, ran her down in the meadow, caught hold of her - seizing a powerfully kicking foot as she leaped away. He dragged her back, snatched her up, staggered to his feet with her struggling body clamped in his hands.

    She stopped struggling. They looked at each other. Then she began to laugh at him - she was so much taller that, as he held her on her back against his chest, he could scarcely keep her feet from touching the ground. He grinned at her wickedly and tossed her into the air. She shrieked. He caught her as she fell, in a strong grip. Her eyes flared, she clawed at him again, and then yelped; his hands had flashed momentarily with stinging heat. She raised a hand, a spark of energy forming in it. Then her gaze softened. She smacked his face instead.

    He drew her closer, smiling; gently nuzzled her cheek. And she held still, pressing her cheek a little against him. 

    For a time they didn't move, only hung there, suspended, eyes closed, the suns' hands enfolding them both.

    Then he was running over the grass with her in his hands, her body jouncing with his short rapid steps while she clung frantically to his head. He ran to the other side of the meadow, where there was another patch of forest and the cliffs arose. There was a little overhang of rock, shaded by small trees and bushes, a place where he had often slept when tramping alone through the woods at night. He laid her down there on the soft loam. She didn't let go of him until she had dragged him down to lie at her side. 

    

    He put a hand to her hair, softly brushed away a few caught twigs and leaves. Her large green almond-shaped eyes sunlike shone into him, lighting up every corner of his soul with bright, dappled, living radiance... The shifting shadows, translucent green leaves, the forests and lakes, the sky and clouds, the grasses and flowers and young dancing things of his world were all contained within those eyes, and the suns; the two suns, the twin moons, every glittering star.

    He stroked her pointed ear just lightly with his finger. She closed her eyes, rubbing her head catlike against his hand; a deep, soft purring pulsating in her chest.

    "Ly," he breathed. _"Ly."_

    Her eyes turned towards him. Her lips parted, smiling - 

    And he was aflame with terror. In her innocence she was going to say it, that word, that name that would sear through his body like a blazing sword. Those eyes on him, they would reach down though his eyes, see what he'd become, understand, _know_ - 

    He covered his face, the blow struck like a giant fist, shattered him into shards of burning ice.

He was face down on the floor, beside the bed, on the hard, freezing cold wood. For a moment he stared around wildly, completely unable to grasp where he was. Where he'd been. How - 

Her eyes. Those green eyes turning towards him, immense as the forest, the sea. He moaned silently, squeezed shut his own eyes, buried them behind his fists. The eyes kept gazing at him, they wouldn't close, he couldn't stop seeing them, and no matter how he writhed away, their steady, silent regard never left him. 

He could only repeat over and over like a magic incantation, a prayer, _He's dead. He's dead. There's nothing there, he's gone, you can't find him, he's dead._ Even so, it was a long while before those quiet green eyes finally lowered, finally looked sadly away, finally shut their warm light and abandoned him to the dark.

Where he still lay on the floor, shaking a little with cold. With more than cold.

As if he could forget. Still Guardian of his planet, still. The last person anybody who'd known him as a child or youth would have thought of. Imagine, that clown, that dreamer, that infuriating practical joker, the guy who never let a serious word out of his mouth if he could help it - _Guardian?_ And true enough, if it had been up to him he'd rather have spent his life snoozing in a hammock, playing frivolous games, roaming through the shadow-filled, shifting embrace of the forests.

The green jewelled planet, Ly's world. Whatever, whoever he was now, he was still all the guardian it had. There was never more than one in a generation. The duty he'd taken on with so much reluctance.

He'd always known in his depths he had the capacity, however hidden, to be Guardian. That he was capable of that utter stubbornness, that tenacity, that refusal to do anything but win. As well as far too large a share of the impulsiveness and recklessness that went with it... he was just wayward Rayman, nobody special, and there must be somebody else out there who was the real Guardian, the right person, the person who _wanted_ to do it. Someone worthy, someone without his flaws, someone who'd be _good_ at it. But as he'd watched from the sidelines, waiting with growing unease, that place had persistently stayed empty, the right person refused to turn up. 

A Guardian could not be chosen or assigned, he could only choose himself - or herself. Naturally there was always a pack of aspirants eager for that role, that fame, that status; but when they came close to the reality they finally began to get a hazy clue of what he himself had always seen with hard vividness, what he had been born knowing, and one by one they fell away. That the job was impossible, too big for anybody; nobody could do it. In the end, he was the one they all had to settle for, because he was the one who could see the task in all its grim magnitude, flee it in completely sincere horror, and yet in the end accept it because ... well, somebody had to.

And he was still, as best he could, in the midst of all his failures, he was still doing it. But now without the love, the understanding, the help, or the forgiveness of his people. Without even their knowledge. 

Oh god. His world. His home. His friends. Ly ... The "natives" of the planet they were on now. The boxes. Elly... Elly. Not for the first time since it had all begun, a scream welled up inside him, he clenched it back. 

No scream. Ly would hear. She would find him. Then she would know, and he would - break.

What right did he have to scream? He had the right to lie in the harsh embrace of the freezing floor, he'd earned that much. He had the right to wear Piranha like a metal straitjacket. A cage, a prison, a punishment; a torture device and life support system all in one. 

Like a robot, like a substitute for a living being, Piranha could perform the actions to fulfill Rayman's contract. If the suffering of the lost thing inside it gave pleasure to Anaconda... that was part of the bargain, too, wasn't it? Though he hadn't grasped that until today. But of course it was.

He lay still, his cheek on the cold floor, watching impassively the unrolling of his future. He had survived torture before. He could endure.

Endure. For a lifetime? What if - _Could _he become an Anaconda? Living this life, playing this role, forcing himself into intolerable act after act until at last he could tolerate such acts, while his resentment at his own pain, his rage at all he saw and couldn't change, his fury at his own crimes gradually turned him against all other beings; until the poisonous hatred corroding his spirit ate away what life was left in him - could he at last become another Anaconda? 

Quietly he growled. If the little spitfire, the ghost that chained him, the real source of his torture, was snuffed out at last, if the machine was set free ... then may the gods help Anaconda. The Boss would find out what kind of fire he'd been playing with. No god, no demon would be enough to help Anaconda then. 

Or anything else in Piranha's path. Nothing would be safe; nothing anywhere. Not even- He took a long breath. Did he really know what kind of fire he was playing with, himself, did he really know?

Lying on the freezing floor, laying his head wearily against the bed's cold metal leg, he shut his eyes and waited. 

[End of Chapter 10]


	18. The Tormenting of Elly, Part 1

I know this is just a lot of boring exposition, but it needed to be gotten out of the way. A bit of calm after the storm in the last chapter. The next section should be more interesting, I hope, and it's mostly done, so be patient with me please.

Rayman (and Ly whenever she turns up) are © UbiSoft Entertainment; everybody else in this story, the plot, and the setting are © me. Not totally original, but oh well.

Incidentally, I see that we' ve lost almost all formatting function on Fanfiction (dot) net now - can't indent, can't add empty lines to separate sections or even asterisks or other characters to separate them. This is getting so ridiculous I may stop posting on this site. But you can also see this story at rayfan (dot) deviantart (dot) com.

,.,.,.,

**Chapter 11: The Tormenting of Elly, Part 1**

No one could remember a time like this on the _Insurrection_. The pirate ship had never been so busy, so tightly run, or quite so nervous. During Blargh's lengthy term as first mate, the crew had thought they did very well at raiding, pillaging and creating havoc among populations. But in the weeks and months since Blargh's replacement by Piranha, the pirates were finding out that they had only been lounging around, pirating in their sleep, compared to the work being forced on them now. At the same time, in the old days there had been endless grumbling among the crew at the unabashed corruption of the senior officers, at the unfair distribution of booty, at the preferential treatment given to some officers and crew at the expense of the rest, at the favoritism of robots over humans, at the toleration of bullying and thievery, and at Anaconda's indolent acceptance of it all. But all that had changed now. It certainly had.

The being who had emerged from his still-secret cabin (after an unexplained disappearance for a whole day once the invasion was under control), took up his duties as First Mate doggedly and efficiently, but with no trace of the personality that had overturned the whole ship a short time before. Indeed, with his distant, abstracted look, he hardly seemed to be there at all; but if something caught his attention he would snap back to the present with such force that anything directly in his path was liable to regret it. And heaven help anyone who startled him, or pestered him for any reason. Even on a pirate ship where casual violence was taken for granted, and where officers wouldn't be respected if they didn't slam around a few underlings once in a while, the stories about Piranha that whispered through the crew caused some shocked looks.

He was good at his job, though. He planned raids, and when he had to fight fought with silent ruthlessness. He came as required to Anaconda to give his reports, and showed no response to the Boss's little barbed jokes. After he was given the first mate's usual task of sharing out the booty, he oversaw the distribution with strict impartiality, to the astonished delight of most (and the deep resentment of a few).

So apart from the occasional outburst of temper, Piranha paced methodically through his busy days. He grimly took up each task he thought needed to be done, disposed of it quickly — though sometimes with an arcane logic utterly bewildering to the persons involved — and then went on with equal grimness to the next. If he showed no sign of enthusiasm, still he never hesitated for a moment to take action.

What he didn't do was smile, joke, meet anyone's eyes (unless with an intimidating glare), listen to anything except necessary facts, or even talk. If he wasn't annoyed about something (though that would be rare), he was liable to go through a whole day without ever speaking a word except as directly required by business. After a while even the robots began to get the uneasy sense that they were dealing with a machine.

* * *

Four days had passed since the start of the invasion by the time Elly finally returned from the slave quarters to Piranha's cabin. It was late evening. He was sitting alone at the table in the dimly lit room, and he looked quickly around, surging to his feet as the door was unlocked and opened. Then, seeing who it was, he sat slowly down again; though his large eyes, glittering with small points of light, stayed on her.

She paused at the entrance, looking back at him. Then she locked the door, hung up her cloak, and silently walked over to the galley to check what was in it. Everything was clean and orderly, but there was no food left. Without a word she returned to her cloak and put it on.

He was beside her before she reached the door. Those black eyes were fixed on her face. He opened his mouth a little as if to speak, then closed it again.

She glanced at him and he took a step back. She went out the door. He returned to his chair and sat down.

When she returned with some food, he turned his face away as she came in. She set out two plates and sat down at the opposite side of the table. Neither of them looked at the other. They didn't eat much, either.

Later, as he was getting into bed for the night, he glanced over at her. She was trying to curl up in the hard chair by the table. He shook his head.

"Elly," he said — it was the first time either of them had spoken — "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer. He let out an exasperated breath.

"Will you lie down? You can't sleep in that chair. — No, _not_ on the floor. Don't—" He stopped. Then growled, "Elly. Just get in the bed."

As if by remote control, her slight form stood up and drifted across the floor. She arrived at the foot of the bed and gingerly edged herself onto the farthest possible corner, curling up like a cat.

He sat up, looking at her for a moment. He gathered up a blanket and tossed it in her direction. Then, turning away, he lay down himself. It was quite some time before either of them fell asleep.

The next day, a couple of hours after Piranha had left in the morning, while she stayed to pick up her usual chores, Elly was startled as she was sweeping the floor by the door bursting open.

Piranha stomped in, half-carrying, half dragging a large folding cot. He lugged it past her as she stood watching, and flung it on the floor near the bed. With a few quick, unnecessarily abrupt motions, he unfolded it. Then glared at her.

"You sleep on that from now on," he said. "Then maybe you'll feel a little more _safe. _Don't know why I didn't think of it before." He stormed out again. She watched him go. After he'd left, locking the door behind him with a violent clank, she walked over to the cot and arranged a blanket and pillow on it. Then sat down on it and sighed.

He didn't return that night, nor for the next few days. He must have gone into some other cabin to sleep. Eventually he did come back, in a more subdued fashion, and they gradually fell into a routine that was peaceable, at least on the surface. There still wasn't much conversation, though.

* * *

New First Mate or not, the ship's business of piracy went on as it always had. Well, not exactly as it always had. The raids on the planet continued, with the ship moving periodically to a new location after a given area was cleaned out. Booty was stuffed into the cargo holds, prisoners were taken. Anaconda would emerge from his solitude from time to time to check up on things, but in general it was Piranha's critical glare the crew had to deal with. And it was often the most unexpected things that brought fire into his eyes. As a result, however, raids began to go faster, more booty was gathered in better condition, and there was less damage to the captives. Piranha disliked waste, and you didn't want to inspire that look he'd get if something had been wrecked in a casual moment of fun. After a while, they weren't even burning down the villages anymore. Not as many pirates were killed or wounded, either. It seemed that most of the injuries used to happen in the fires, or by pirates being accidentally shot by their own robot shock troops during disorganized melees.

As the changes accumulated, one of the more revolutionary ones was that Hacker — who, having unfortunately been forced to swear loyalty to the first mate, now had certain obligations — somehow found himself leaving the ship and leading the raids on the villages. He hadn't ventured into battle in so many years that the first time he showed up, all the robots present froze in whatever their awkward position and stared, with only their heads slowly turning to follow him as he slouched by. He growled, shouldering his heavy weapons, and muttered something unintelligible. But after that day, it was he who led the fighting. It was a promotion, he explained to anyone who cared to listen.

The ship's ancient ways were shifting bit by bit, not only in battle but inside the ship itself. The corridors became gradually cleaner; there was more purposeful travel through the halls and less lounging about; doors, walls, equipment, and even some of the damaged lighting fixtures that had been dim, sputtering, or extinguished for uncounted years, began to be repaired. Small alterations throughout the ship began to have the cumulative effect of brightening the place up a fraction, of lightening the dismal atmosphere to some tiny degree. This was somewhat counterbalanced by the fact that it was getting harder to have any fun in the place.

Piranha clamped down unmercifully on brawling, gambling, and drinking in the corridors, until people could be heard grumbling that this ship wasn't supposed to be no _blistered_ kiddie playground. Unlike Anaconda, or Blargh, or other officers in the past, he didn't let the unimportant things, the little daily crimes slide — he was on top of them with vampirish ferocity. It was futile to protest that nobody had cared in the past if Joe stole Jal's booty while he was down on the planet fighting, and it was his own fault for not hiding it well enough; or to point out, very reasonably, that it really didn't matter if the men's food was half-spoiled, hardly any of them would actually die of it. Invoking tradition got you nowhere. When Piranha got it into his head that he didn't like something, he wouldn't leave it alone until he had changed it. On the other hand, most of those who came to him with complaints about the changes, about other things that needed to be changed, or about almost anything else, he would simply brush aside — sometimes with boredom, occasionally with a flamethrower.

On the whole, the crew was a little in shock, not sure what to think of the first mate. That grim, almost demonic character was unrecognizable as the lively person who had defeated Blargh. His strange ideas led to mutterings and discontented talk among some of the pirates, though others found his new rules something of a relief. And nothing could mollify that temper of his. It was just not a good idea to be in his presence at any time, and you'd be better off running on a discharged battery than to cross his path when he was annoyed. As with all officers, endless, ever-changing rumours circulated about him, about secret schemes he was up to, about his alliances or rivalries with Anaconda, Hacker, Tulik and many others. But, unlike with other officers, there wasn't much said about theft or embezzlement. Anybody except the most criminal could see that that wasn't true. The distribution of the booty proved it. And though he was constantly on that hair trigger, it had to be admitted that with very few exceptions the persons he lashed out at with violence deserved it. At least by Piranha's peculiar standards.

Which wasn't to count the brawls he got into most evenings in the officers' bar. But that was understandable. Anybody had the right to get into fights on his free time. Even an officer needed to relax.

For Elly, things were tougher if anything than for the rest of the crew. She had the freedom of the ship, she could come and go as she pleased, though Bubo and his friends still maintained the security patrol barricading the old section. But Elly found that wandering through the corridors had become intensely uncomfortable. Whereas for most of her life she'd been largely ignored, now eyes followed her everywhere: eyes of unnerving, even lewd curiosity, of envy and resentment, of eagerness to wangle some kind of favour. Ridiculous as _that_ was. None of them, slave or pirate, human or robot, had any conception of her unimportance. It was hard work to convince them of the futility of trying to bribe her. Even if she'd been inclined to accept, she had no influence with the First Mate. She couldn't even talk to him.

So she spent most of her time in the cabin, chafing to find something to do, sleeping too much, brought to the verge of tears at times by the boredom and purposelessness of her life. She ran errands and sewed and cleaned and made a few half-hearted efforts to make the cabin a little more livable, but in the end, she didn't really want to disguise it as anything other than the featureless, anonymous, meaningless prison it was. A prison where she was trapped with a brooding cellmate who day by day became more incomprehensible; who, she was beginning to fear, was slowly becoming insane.

There were evenings when he would come in, silently eat whatever she set in front of him, then remain where he was, sitting motionless at the table while Elly did her best to clean or work on his clothes or attend to some other small task. It was like breathing in a vacuum, as though some vicious weapon had sucked all the air out of the room. Or like trying to move through a crushing, oppressive forcefield that slowed her limbs and her mind and made her want only to shrink into a small, hapless knot.

When she looked at him sitting there, his eyes often shut, rarely glancing at her — he showed no signs of emotion, or even awareness. His body was like a piece of equipment parked for the night and turned off. But the sense of oppression in the room was so overwhelming it was all she could do sometimes not to flee out the door just to see if there was any air left in the ship.

The thought of the few days she'd spent down in the slave quarters at the start of the invasion kept coming back to her, with a sense of dismay. She had become a personal slave now, living in a cabin, eating pretty regularly, and no longer subject to the whim of every pirate on the ship. To return to the desperation of that old stray life would have been terrible. But at least in those days she had known what to expect. Now, nothing was predictable or understandable.

Piranha's silent brooding was hard to endure; his fits of wild restlessness were worse. There were evenings when he couldn't seem to stop striding nervously back and forth in the cabin, exuding an agitation she couldn't call anything but _crazy._

She'd first seen it one night when, sleeping on her cot, she was startled awake as Piranha suddenly jolted out of sleep with a gasp. She looked over — he was sitting up, a look of panic on his face. Then he hurtled off the bed as though it was on fire.

Hesitantly, Elly whispered, "Piranha?"

He froze in shock, gaping at her for a moment without recognition. "She's — she's after me," he panted, "she's looking for me again."

Elly blinked. A bad dream? But he thought it was real.

He was hastily pulling on his clothes.

She sat up anxiously, tucking the sheet around herself like a fragile shield.

"Can't sleep," he was muttering, yanking on his boots. "Can't let my guard down like that. Mustn't sleep."

And he raced out the door.

Leaving Elly to curl up on her bed, weak with apprehension. It had been scary enough having to cope with a _sane_ Piranha. What was she supposed to do now?

[End of Part 1]


	19. The Tormenting of Elly, Part 2

The next part of this should be up very soon, but I might as well get this one out of my hands so I can't tinker with it any more. There should be two more parts of chapter 11 after this, yes it's that long. I don't know how these things happen. These chapters grow spontaneously on my hard drive, like fungus.

Once again, PG-13 alert for mildly uncouth language, but you know that by now, don't you?

Rayman and the blame for the existence of this thing, © UbiSoft Entertainment  
All else © me (no, it's my fault, really!)

,.,.,.,.,

**Chapter 11: The Tormenting of Elly, Part Two**

However occupied Piranha might be with the hourly emergencies of a warship, the first mate's first priority was still to be at the command of the Boss. Anaconda might go for days without speaking to him, then get into a froth of anxiety or annoyance about something, calling Piranha repeatedly in to see him, generally at the most inconvenient possible moments.

It was in response to such a peremptory summons that Piranha was hurrying to see the Boss. What did that electronic meddling device want now? The first mate had been on his way to meet with his own sub-officers, and now they had to wait while he went to be subjected to Anaconda's latest caprice. The ship had just been moved to a new location to start in on a new native settlement — was the Boss dissatisfied with that already? Was he annoyed that there was now less drinking on the ship? No doubt he got a kickback from the sales of the ship's native version of rum. Or had he been listening to the whimperings of Hacker again? Although still in disgrace and — despite his new and unwanted role of battle leader — staying mostly out of sight, Hacker seemed to be keeping himself busy. A couple of unexplained outbreaks of fighting that had erupted on the ship recently, once among the pirates, once in the slave quarters, had had a distinct whiff of his furtive rumormongering. But nothing definite could be traced back to him — unfortunately, since Piranha would have liked very much to have a good excuse to deal with that asteroid-sized sneak once and for all.

He arrived at the little chamber off the war room where the Boss now spent most of his time. It was Anaconda's private domain, furnished with his own personal belongings. There were comfortable armchairs quite unlike the simple rough benches and chairs found in the rest of the ship (though why a robot would care to sit down, or care what he sat on, was beyond Piranha's comprehension), as well as a few elegant ornaments in precious materials, some expensive-looking draperies on the walls which Piranha sourly assumed concealed something nefarious, and a bar for drinks. In the corners of the room, as motionless as the rest of the furnishings, lurked Anaconda's three bodyguards. All of which Piranha had seen too many times even to notice. But this time, as the First Mate stepped through the door, something halted him even before he set his foot down.

He was enfolded by sound, supple and luxurious, like a living spirit that had condensed out of the air and wrapped him in its arms. Sound as opulent as a river of chocolate, as bright as a mountain waterfall; as powerful and gentle, as accusing and forgiving, as the Two Hands, the twin suns of his own planet. It was a group of instruments he didn't recognize, playing in complex rhythms and harmonies that he had never heard before, but which seemed instantly as much a part of him as though he had lived with them his whole life. He took a deep breath, his mouth a little open, his eyes wide. It was like eavesdropping on the meditations of a god; one of the more spiritually-minded gods at that.

"Fond of music, I take it?" Anaconda, sprawling in a chair a few yards away, grinned at him sardonically.

Though yanked unpleasantly from that sonic embrace, Piranha looked at Anaconda with frank awe. "Music? It's breathtaking. So much depth to it — so much thought, so much feeling." He held still as it took hold of him again. "I've never heard anything like it."

"No," the Boss drawled, "I expect not, in that backwater I rescued you out of." He touched a control on his chair, and the sounds died away. In the same moment, Piranha's wide-eyed gaze hardened into his normal dark, quietly aggressive glare.

"What do you want, Anaconda?" he said.

The Boss said, "I believe I've mentioned this before. The correct form of address is 'Boss' or 'Captain.' Failing that, _'sir'_."

"Right," Piranha muttered. "That's what you called me here for?"

"Not entirely." Anaconda remained silent for a few moments, still sprawled carelessly in his chair, but fixing Piranha with his small, blank, glowing yellow eyes. "I've been getting complaints about you, First Mate."

Piranha smiled slightly. "Naturally. I've been doing my job."

"Very amusing." Picking up his thin whip, or switch, the tall black robot got out of his chair and strode forward towards Piranha, his hands clasped behind him. "It seems you've been on something of a spree lately, First Mate. It's getting out of hand. Did you _have_ to demolish one of my better human officers? I don't know if he'll ever be good for anything again!"

Piranha looked at him blankly. "Er... Which officer was that?"

Anaconda gestured in annoyance. "Jebbel, you sparkless idiot."

Piranha tensed with remembered rage. _"Him?_ I caught that piece of garbage trying to rape one of the prisoners."

"Piranha. The officers of this ship aren't your personal property. When you feel like committing mayhem, find a more appropriate target. Or at least a plausible reason. Show a little self-control."

Piranha's lips drew back slightly. "Self-control. Yes, like your better human officers."

The Boss made another impatient gesture. "All right, never mind, it's not that important. There's a more serious matter — the booty distribution. I've had one officer after another in here whining that they're not getting their fair share."

"One after another? You mean Hacker?"

Anaconda straightened up, irritably. "Not only him. The officers —"

Piranha flung out his hands in exasperation. "Sure, he's getting less! Did he mention that he and Blargh used to siphon off a quarter of _your_ share? And there's no telling what they smuggled away from the rest of the officers and crew. I don't see the problem."

Anaconda folded his arms and grinned slightly, eyeing his first mate with one eyebrow raised. "You amaze me, Piranha. Who'd have thought you had the soul of a bookkeeper?"

Piranha snorted. "You _needed_ a bookkeeper around here. It took me weeks to find one. I've got one now though, an old fellow who was working as a kitchen slave — he's getting all the records straightened out."

Anaconda raised both eyebrows. "Records?"

"Yes, records. The crew's finally stopped muttering about what they've been owed for the past five years, even though their pay's not fully caught up yet. Records or not, _they_ don't forget. And do you really object to getting more of your own gold?"

Anaconda gazed up towards the ceiling as if pleading for patience. "Piranha. Obviously there's something about being first mate of a pirate vessel you simply haven't grasped. Records! Listen, yokel, _you're_ the one entrusted with the distribution of booty. You don't need some meddling slave to tell you how to share it out."

It was Piranha's turn to look skeptical.

"Don't you see, First Mate. In your position, you could become rich very quickly."

"Oh?" Piranha shrugged. "You mean if we continue to have such large hauls. Yes, probably."

Anaconda glared at him. "Of course. And also... in your position... First Mate... _no one _should know how much you take for yourself..."

"My share is ten percent of the officers' portion, and half of mine goes to you. Do you want more?"

Anaconda clenched his jaw. "Damn it, Piranha, are you a complete idiot?"

"You can assign someone to double-check if you don't trust me. Tulik perhaps. Unless you want to take over the distribution yourself again."

Anaconda glowered.

"Or you could give the distribution job to Hacker. He'd like that."

Anaconda brought his arm down hard, cracking the air with his whip. "Do you take _me_ for an idiot?"

"Well, then, Anaconda, there's nothing more to say about it." He turned to go. Anaconda jumped forward, grabbed him by the trunk with both hands and whirled him hard around to face himself, almost knocking him down.

"Damn you to hell, you witless little freak, can't you take a _hint?" _

Straightening his hat, Piranha looked him in the eye balefully. "A hint? I beg your pardon, was that some kind of order you were giving me, Anaconda? I stupidly missed it."

Anaconda bent to thrust his dark face almost against Piranha's.

"Is that sarcasm I'm hearing, First Mate? Is that possible? Somehow I keep getting the impression you think you're too good for us. That your provincial little moral certainties make you superior."

Piranha's glare didn't waver. The Boss flicked the sharp tip of his switch a fraction away from Piranha's eyes.

"Has it occurred to you, guardian of planetary delusions, that whatever noble high ground you may have descended from, you're now down in the mud with the rest of us? Have you noticed lately that you're a _pirate?_ A merciless, thieving, bloodthirsty, murderous pirate? And a _slaver?_ Raiding villages, seizing harmless, innocent people, tearing them away from their peaceful lives? Have you thought about how much you're going to _profit_ from the capture and sale of men, women, and children?"

He paused. Piranha, almost invisibly, had flinched. Those black eyes had subtly lost their focus; they didn't quite meet the robot's glowing yellow ones.

"Yes," Piranha said, after a moment. "I've noticed."

Anaconda straightened and grinned down at him. "I thought you probably had," he said. "But it's healthy to be reminded now and then."

The tall black robot returned to his chair and sprawled into it again. Offhandedly he added, "Oh, one more thing. First Mate, I'm intending to depart the planet in about twenty days. By that time the cargo hold must be completely filled with booty and prisoners. We need to be stocked up, since we have a rendezvous two weeks later with the Black Hole."

Piranha took a long breath. There was a deep weariness in his eyes.

"Black hole?" he said, dutifully. "What's that?"

"Nothing for you to concern yourself with. One of my contacts."

Piranha nodded absently. He turned to leave.

"Oh," added Anaconda — and the luxuriant melody welled up again, softly — "by the way, Piranha, appreciation of complex music is a rare taste on this ship. You must come by and sample my collection."

Piranha halted. He fixed his flat stare again on Anaconda.

"Your collection. _You_ collect music."

"Why, yes, I'm quite fond of it. I've collected music for — centuries, I suppose you'd say."

Those black eyes were cold now, fiercely cold and resentful. "Fond of it? You claim you _like_ it? What does it mean to you?"

The Boss raised his eyebrows. "Sparks, what a personal question. What should it mean?"

Piranha turned on his heel, headed for the door. Anaconda's harsh voice froze him as though he'd literally been seized by the robot's metal hand. "Piranha! I'm not done with you yet. Enough of your insubordination, who the hell do you think you are?"

Piranha half-turned towards him once again with a deliberately contemptuous look. "What's this? Losing your cool again because of a stupid clumsy _slave?"_

Anaconda's eyes flared, his body straightened as if to lurch out of the chair, his hand grabbed automatically for his whip. But then he stopped himself. He leaned back, smiling coldly.

"Ah, why I didn't get myself a human first mate long ago? You bio types are so quaintly temperamental. Yes, Piranha, come listen to the music when you have a chance. Dream of home. Steep in nostalgia. Indulge your emotions. It's so _interesting_ to see what even a minute or two of hearing it does to you."

For a moment, Piranha stood motionless. Anaconda raised one eyebrow, grinning a little more. "Not going to thank me?"

A quiver ran through the small black body. Piranha twisted and strode out of the room.

Hoping the door would close behind him quickly enough that he wouldn't hear Anaconda's soft, self-satisfied chuckle. As usual, it didn't.

.,.,.,.

It was only a short distance to the war room, where his aides were waiting. As the First Mate swept into the room, caroming the heavy metal door almost off its hinges, they all lurched up from the various postures of lounging and drinking they had been in, and bunched together in a badly assorted phalanx, facing him warily. Seeing the Boss never improved the First Mate's state of mind.

Piranha's lieutenant Tulik was there, as well as the human Bubo, who didn't have an officer rank but made himself useful in various ways, and a few other robot and human officers who were involved with planning and executing raids, distribution of arms, overseeing slaves, ship security, feeding the crew, and the rest of the ship's business.

The only other person in the room was a slender, smallish young male human slave, pale-skinned, sandy-haired and green-eyed, who had been darting about taking care of the cups and drinks. Piranha barely glanced at him. The person who wasn't in the room was considerably more noticeable.

He glowered. "Where is he?" he demanded.

"Hacker?" said Tulik. "He knows about the meeting. I announced it on the intercom twice."

"On my way here, I caught a glimpse of him staggering down the hall on level 5," added Bubo, who despite Piranha's dark look couldn't entirely smother a grin. "So lubricated his gears kept slipping. He was heading into the elevator, guess he got off on the wrong floor."

Piranha growled. "On the fifth level? Where the old section is? All right, never mind that." He glared around the room. The targets of his glare all stirred uneasily. "I'm tired of telling you the same thing over and over. This ship is a disaster. I don't care if it is a pirate ship, it still needs to function. Yesterday I found seven men dead drunk in the halls. How the hell are they still doing that? This morning only two-thirds of the fighters showed up for the raid. Tulik, you're supposed to be coordinating the expeditions, what's going on? And glorious leader Hacker didn't show up at all, _I_ had to lead them out. That's the second time this week. Why isn't he in the brig?"

Tulik stepped forward. "He's been very hard to pin down, Piranha. He can't even be found at the bar any more."

"A monster that size? How can he hide? Bubo just saw him!"

Tulik shrugged helplessly. Piranha swivelled to bark at another of the officers, a human. "And _you_, Ackel, I was down in the slave quarters last night. You know what I've told you. Only robots to guard the slaves, no humans. The temptation seems to be too much for them. They're damaging the cargo."

"P-Piranha, sir, honestly, there aren't enough robots—"

Piranha looked at him. "We also need more slaves, Ackel, are you volunteering?"

The officer winced. "I'll take care of it, sir."

After taking out a few more targets, Piranha stepped back with an air of finality. (The rest of the officers all took a quiet breath of relief, like the zebras still standing after the lions have finally brought down one of their herd.) "All right," he said. "Now to what the Boss said." His men all bunched together a little with renewed alarm; even in mentioning the Boss, Piranha's eyes had turned an ominous metallic grey.

Teeth bared as if his lips were trying to not to participate in his speech, Piranha said, "We'll be leaving this planet in fifty days. By then the booty and slave cargo holds are to be full. I know we're behind with the slaves. That means — Tulik, how many more?"

The silver robot said, "To have a full cargo we'll need about two thousand more slaves."

Piranha, still with a look of revulsion on his face, closed his eyes for a moment. Then went on in a carefully controlled voice, "Can it be done in twenty days?"

"Yes. But we can't afford any more delayed or cancelled raids. We're going to need Hacker to show up when he's supposed to. And the rest of the fighters too."

Piranha gave him a hard, direct look. "Tulik, you get your men to track him down _today_ and inform him that he has no more excuses to miss an expedition. And when he starts crying about it, tell him if he goofs off again I'll come after him myself. If he can't be found, it'll have to be _you_ leading the raids. You got that, Tulik?"

"I understand, First Mate."

Piranha looked around at the group again. "All right, now go. I'll be checking up on all of you." And abruptly terminating the meeting, Piranha turned away from them all. The officers glanced at each other. Definitely, having a meeting after the First Mate had just seen the Boss was not the best idea.

They filed quickly out the door. As Tulik passed him, however, Piranha touched his arm. "Wait." Obediently, the robot halted.

As the room emptied, Piranha caught sight of the small human slave putting away the last of the cups and bottles. "You there. Are you done? Clear out."

The slave turned to him, gave a slight nervous bow, and sped away. Piranha eyed him. The kid looked vaguely familiar. Then he turned back to Tulik.

Quietly he said, "Speaking of having trouble tracking somebody down, I can hardly find you anymore, Tulik. Don't you ever go to the officers' bar? I've never seen you there."

"I've heard that you can be found there pretty frequently, First Mate. Aside from hunting for the second mate, I don't have any reason to go myself."

"What, Tulik," Piranha said, with the trace of a smile, "Are you the only person on this ship who doesn't drink?"

"No, sir," Tulik said flatly. "You don't either."

Piranha looked up at him. The robot was standing there calmly, showing no impatience. But any attempt to start a conversation with him simply dropped into a void.

"Tulik," he said, quietly, "do you remember... the last time I saw you around the bar? The time I had that brush with Hacker—"

"Remember? I have virtually unlimited memory storage," Tulik said dryly.

"Ah. But no obligation to talk, of course. When I do manage to get hold of you, I can hardly wring a word out of you."

Tulik's glowing blue eyes regarded him impassively. "First Mate, surely I haven't refused to answer any of your questions."

"No. You haven't let me ask them in the first place. Tulik, do I ask too much of you? Is your loyalty to me, or to the robots?"

Tulik paused. "I'm loyal to the ship, Piranha. That's what I belong to. And you're my senior officer. Robot or otherwise, I follow your orders."

"All right then. Answer this question. Tulik, what vital information am I missing about this ship? I _know_ I'm missing something."

Tulik looked at him in silence. Piranha halted and faced him directly.

"You see? You won't talk to me."

"Sir, I don't know how to answer that question."

"Is there something hidden from non-robots?"

Tulik shrugged. "There's nothing that could possibly relate to the running of this ship. I can't see that you're missing anything. You've learned an impressive amount in such a short time."

Piranha began to pace again. "You don't much like me, do you, Tulik?"

Tulik said nothing. Piranha turned to him once again. He smiled faintly. "I think I've disappointed you."

After a moment, Tulik said, "Well, sir, in fact I did have the impression at first that you would be somewhat different. But you've done well as First Officer, the ship runs more smoothly than in many, many cycles. I have no complaints."

Piranha looked at Tulik intently. The robot gazed blandly back at him with his expressionless eyes.

At last Tulik said, "Sir, if you have any other questions please ask them. Or any orders, please give them. I have work to do."

Piranha regarded him for another moment. Then turned away. "No, there's nothing else, Tulik. Go ahead." As the robot walked out of the room, Piranha closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

.,.,.,.,.

Piranha looked grim as he approached the old section, where his cabin was. He found Bubo there, on patrol with some of his men. He gestured to him to follow. The pirate went with him into the labyrinth of the old section, out of sight and earshot of the rest of the men.

Piranha turned on him then. "Bubo. You're making me a little unhappy right now."

Bubo grinned feebly.

Piranha leaped up and took hold of Bubo's shirt, bracing his feet against the big pirate's chest to hold himself steady. Startled, Bubo backed up against the wall.

Piranha growled, close to his face, "A certain party was seen on this level? And you didn't tell me?"

"B-but I _did_ tell you, Piranha, at the meeting—"

"How do I know there isn't some kind of plotting going on between you and him? Or maybe one of your men? Tell me, how do I know that?"

"Piranha, for the love of — of gold, would I have said I saw him if I was trying to hide anything?"

Piranha glared into his face, still holding himself up by Bubo's shirt. He said, "Get this straight, Bubo. I want him tracked. You need to know where that lily-white lummox can be found _at every moment_. Get your spy pals on the job. If he tries _anything_ I want to hear about it. And god help you if I find you haven't told me something, or if I get a report on him that isn't true."

The big pirate tried to grin. "Okay, Boss, okay, I'm onto it."

Piranha snarled, "Yes, unless you want to be replaced. And don't call me _boss."_

"Sorry, er, First Mate, sir. Sir."

Piranha jumped back to the floor. He gave Bubo a last fierce look. Then he waited until the pirate had gone back out through the entrance, before he made his own way towards his cabin.

[End of Chapter 11, part 2]


	20. The Tormenting of Elly, Part 3

Before I forget yet again, I should point out to some of the more trusting among you, that you really shouldn't believe everything that these characters say or think. They can misinterpret things other characters say or do, and they can also say something in the heat of the moment that isn't necessarily ultimate truth. They can change their minds. They have their own points of view and don't always grasp someone else's. And they don't always understand themselves. This probably isn't always as obvious as I think it is, so forgive them their contradictions.

Note: A "lingua franca" is a language which develops out of the need for communication between people of various different native tongues, a rough-and-ready language used by travellers and traders.

Rayman © Ubisoft Entertainment  
Everything else © Rayfan

.,.,.,.

Chapter 11: The Tormenting of Elly, Part Three

It was early evening as Elly returned from a trip to pick up some food. Although he ate elsewhere during the day, Piranha still usually took his supper in the cabin. Quietly opening the door, she was startled to find him already there, over near the wall of the galley, lying flat on his stomach on the floor. For a moment she thought she saw a sleek, tiny head lifted up to sniff at a scrap of bread Piranha was holding out, as he slowly reached with a finger of his other hand to -

_"No!"_ she screamed.

Piranha shot straight into the air like a startled cat. The long tail of a small animal vanished behind the cupboard. _"Vermin!"_ Elly gasped. Without thinking, she snatched something heavy - one of Piranha's daggers, lying on the table - and flung it after the fleeing creature. As he touched down, Piranha somersaulted hastily backwards to get out of the way, and the knife point smacked past him into the cupboard. The blade stuck there vibrating, buried an inch into the wood. Landing in a sitting position, Piranha stared at the knife, then at Elly. She blushed, lowering her head.

"They - they're all over the ship," she croaked - her voice had dried up suddenly. "They're horrible pests, they eat up everything, they bite, they carry diseases... Piranha, they're much too dangerous to kill with your bare hands!"

Sitting on the floor, he was looking at her steadily, his head tilted a little. Was that the tiniest hint of a smile on his face?

She hurried over to the pantry to put away the food she had brought. Piranha was quickly scooping up some crumbs from the floor. Then Elly paused and turned towards him.

"Piranha - were you _feeding_ it? On _purpose?_" The idea was so shocking that it burst out of her before her better judgement could put a clamp on it.

Piranha threw the crumbs away and retreated quickly towards the table. He didn't say anything. Elly didn't push it.

Since he was there already, Elly got out plates and cups and set the supper on the table. They ate without speaking. The momentary lightness had gone from Piranha's face, he looked grim as usual. After they had eaten, however, as they sat for a moment before cleaning up, he said, "Where'd you learn to throw like that, Elly?"

She winced. "I didn't learn. It's just - Well, what else would you do when you see one of those creatures?" Then blushed, as Piranha had done nothing of the sort.

"You ever hit one?"

"No, they're too fast."

His eyes focused on her with that look she dreaded, penetrating and impersonal as an x-ray. "What if you did hit one?"

She looked at her hands. "I think I'd feel awful. I hate those things, but really I - guess I only want to scare them off. I wish they would just stay away and leave us alone."

His impassive gaze stayed on her. "But what do you do," he said, "when something _won't_ leave you alone? When some evil thing comes into your life and won't go away?"

She looked at him in perplexity and some apprehension. Piranha never talked to her like this. And what did he mean? There was a faint sardonic smile on his face, as though it had occurred to him that he could be talking about himself. Was he trying to trap her?

His hands flat on the table, he was regarding her closely. What kind of thoughts were passing behind those eyes? Had she said the wrong thing? Though he had never, except that one night long ago, raised a hand against her, though he rarely even raised his voice, she lived in continual fear of the moment when he would lose control. Just behind those cold eyes, hot violence seethed like lava. She could see it in his gestures, his motions, she felt it in his silences. And though it didn't touch her, she knew it did come out at times against the pirates.

As she remained silent, he said - his voice so oddly soft in her increasingly panic-deafened ears -

"Elly. What would you do if somebody attacked you?"

She froze. Was he going to attack her? She stared at him, unable to muster a coherent thought.

He turned his gaze away from her, impatiently. Then back towards her again. "You've been attacked before, haven't you? Well, what if nobody's around to protect you? What would happen?" He waited, she didn't say anything.

He jumped to his feet and began to pace rapidly back and forth. He paused, swivelling once again towards her. "It could happen, you know. You - you're kind of a weak point. A vulnerability." He made an angry gesture. "I don't trust that Hacker. He gets ideas, and they're never good ones."

He took a few steps towards her. Involuntarily she tensed a little in her chair, gripping the sides of the seat, eyeing him with the look of a small edible creature confronting five-inch fangs.

He stopped. A small, bitter smile crept into his features. "You really hate me to look at you, don't you, Elly. You hate it when I talk to you." She didn't stir. "Or let's just get straight to the point and say you hate _me."_

She was too terrified to do anything but stare.

He turned away and began to pace again, slowly this time, rather meditatively.

Elly didn't move. Piranha's moods were always volatile, and right now she felt she was clinging to the edge of a cliff - and the least twitch might set off an avalanche. He kept his face averted from her. His eyes were lowered, half-shut. He was still slowly crossing and recrossing the floor, moving in a slow panther-like stalk that made her blood freeze.

As he paced, he began muttering. It wasn't clear whether he was talking to her or to himself. " 'Always had a streak of the pirate,' he says. Hah! If I did, would I feel like a - bottled genie? Trapped for life in this stifling ship. How can anyone live here? Repelled by everything around you, never wanting to - touch anything, or to have to look at the things in front of you... revolted to be drinking this water, eating this food, breathing this air ... always surrounded by enemies... the constant pressure of - hating and being hated." He stopped, his eyes staring at something invisible, or nothing. "I dream of it sometimes, the relief... of letting go, giving in, just giving in at last, not having to fight it anymore... Just letting it happen... Letting the bastard win. It's what he's counting on, I know he is.

"He's so sure of himself, that smug, smirking, manipulating -" He squeezed shut his eyes, and with alarm Elly saw his hands slowly clench into fists. He went on, still in a quiet tone, though a low growl vibrated deep within it. "To walk into that overstuffed lair of his and hear - oh, my god, it was as though a magical being laid its hands on me in forgiveness. And then ripped me in half."

He glanced at her. She couldn't help quailing, she had no idea what he was talking about. He whirled away impatiently and began to stride up and down the room with increasing rage.

_"Him,_ listening to music! That incredible music! And making snide comments about biological beings. As if _he_ were really alive. Him, bathing in that - that liquid emotion and then acting as though feeling it was something contemptible. What can he want with music? What use is it to him? Can he enslave it? Sell it? Torture it? He's happy enough to smash anything else he can't make a profit from!

"That grasping, murdering, artificial brute! Pretending to be a living being! He's just something somebody _manufactured_, created for some purpose - a tool, a puppet ..." His voice trailed away. He swallowed. "He can't have any ... desires, or natural feelings, or..." There was an alarming sound in his voice, like a sob, like tears. "He's not a real person. How can he have real - freedom? ... Oh, my god."

He paused, turning his volcanic glare towards her.

But it wasn't a glare. It was a look of pure terror.

She stared at him in panic. Whatever incomprehensible thing he was seeking at that moment, she didn't have it to offer him. She was frozen, she couldn't turn away or hide her face, she couldn't disguise how hopelessly inept she was.

His eyes flicked away. He skittered across the room and halted when he reached the wall, like an automaton. He put a hand against it, lowering his head.

He had been talking crazy nonsense. She had seen the desperation in his face, in his eyes, heard it in his voice. He was standing still now, breathing in slow gasps that shook his body. She didn't understand any of it. The only thing she was certain of was that the craziness in him was coming closer and closer to the surface, and when it ignited, she would be done for. There was only one thing that might work, and it wouldn't work.

It was hopeless, but what else could she do? What else was she _for?_ It was the only thing that might distract that growing insanity, that might give her some protection. Now, while he had quieted for the moment.

Stumbling, she slid out of her chair and crept up to him. Her eyes were filling with tears. She was throwing herself into an abyss. It was hopeless. He would probably kill her then and there.

She stood beside him. She couldn't breathe. He turned towards her, his brow wrinkling. Tears sparkled on her cheeks now.

He was leaning against the wall as though he were almost as weak on his feet as she was on hers. He looked at her with disbelief. "Elly?" he said.

She swallowed. She took hold of his free hand, and he started a little, turning more towards her.

"Elly," he said, softly, "You mean you don't-"

Her arm was trembling. She pulled his hand closer, tried to press it against her body.

And he yanked it away from her, his eyes blazing.

"Damn it, are you insane? Don't do that!"

She cowered almost to the floor, covered her face.

His voice sounded half-choked. "Oh, god, Elly, why? Why do you treat me like this? And _yourself?_ Why the _hell?"_

She moaned, "I'm sorry - I thought - it's - it's to calm down the men-"

There was silence. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

After a moment, he whispered, "Oh, my god, how I hate this place. Oh my god, how I _hate_ this place. Everything and everyone in it. Oh, my _god_-"

She crouched there, longing with every cell in her body only to be able to melt into the floor and disappear.

He glared down at her. "It's not your fault, is it? You don't know any better, do you? But by all the gods on all the planets, Elly, don't you have any self-respect? None at all? And what must you take _me_ for?"

She shivered. He growled.

"Calming down the men. Who taught you that? _Him?_ You think I'm like him, don't you? In fact, you think I _am_ him. _Don't_ you?"

She didn't stir, only held still with her hands over her face.

And a palpable gust of rage swept over him. He grabbed her arms, yanked her to her feet. She averted her face, shaking all over, but made no sound, no resistance.

He snarled at her. "Look at me, can't you? _Look_ at me! What, can't face me? Don't like the _Boss's_ eyes on you? Goddam it, Elly, will you _look me in the face for once?"_

Abruptly he flung her staggering away from him, swung his body around and with a resounding crack slammed a fist against the wall. Elly groaned, cringing away. That blow had split the wood nearly from the floor to the ceiling, and a large splintered dent was bashed into the thick panel around where his fist had struck.

He stood suspended for another moment, nervously flexing his hands. He looked wild, ready to crash the other fist against the wall, or madly throw his whole body against it, or perhaps turn his violence in some other direction...

Then without a glance at her he spun around, tore across the room and out the door.

Elly stood where she was, gasping. Her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, as though that black fireball might magically explode from the shadows.

She'd never seen him so angry. She'd never _made_ him so angry. She'd finally done it, overstepped some unknown line, somehow done something unforgivable. What would he do to her when he came back? He hated everyone, everything... and he was capable of anything.

She looked at her cloak, hanging by the door. The ship was a huge place, but there was nowhere safe from prying eyes, from tattling mouths, from big groping hands. If she left without permission, she was a runaway, she was fair game, it would be open season... She shivered. But it was almost curfew, and who would know she didn't have permission, if she hurried, if she hurried... Or perhaps...

There was only one place where no one would tell, where she might be absorbed in the crowd, comforted for a while. They couldn't protect her, but - She straightened. It was hopeless, she knew that, but ... at least she'd see a few friendly faces before death came for her in some unimaginably savage form.

.,.,.,.

Piranha was charging through the ship's halls, leaving a swath of pale, rather shaky crewmen behind him. Though he didn't look directly at anyone, his mere presence was almost enough to stop the average heart beating. Some swore that they could see a black glow emanating from him, like a negation of light, darkening the whole area. Regardless of that, it was certain that very few pirates missed their curfew that evening. The corridors emptied magically even before the lights began to dim.

He made his way to the top level of the ship, the tenth, where the entrance to the engine room was - the other half of that level being reserved for the quarters of the robot officers and crew - and he pushed past the startled guard and swept into the huge space, empty except for the enormous hulks of the engine casings. He threw off his coat, hat, and his metal-filled vest, and proceeded to spend the better part of the next two hours tearing up and down and all over the basket-shaped energy grid like a stir-crazy monkey, not pausing for a moment, silent save for the occasional snarl when a particularly high-powered discharge snapped at him.

He slowed down finally, panting, and descended. He crouched on the floor until his breathing calmed. He wiped the sweat from his face. Then he stood up, put his things back on, and walked out of there.

And for several hours more he paced through the long halls of the ship, as he had on many other nights. He wandered in and out of different areas, now all empty except for night guards and a few other attendants. He worked his way from the top down: the navigational and war-room level and administrative sections; the recreational areas, otherwise known as the officers' and crewmen's bars, now securely locked and gated for the night; the mess halls, occupied only by a few small automatons finishing the daily cleaning-up; the several levels of officers' and men's dormitories, all dark and quiet; the gigantic kitchens; finally arriving back at the old section, on the fifth level. He didn't go down to the lower decks, where the slave quarters and other things were. For a while he walked through the old section, contemplating its wooden panels and branched wall-lamps, so different from the variety of metal bulkheads and ceiling lights in the rest of the ship.

And finally arrived at his own door. It was about time, he noted, that they moved to another cabin. He'd been here too long, someone might get a fix on him. And they needed more escape routes, safer locations ... So much he had been neglecting. It was time to take care of a number of neglected things.

He unlocked the door and went in. "Elly," he said. And felt instantly that the room was empty.

He searched quickly. He went to Elly's bed, to his own, to the bathroom, and every dim corner. Nothing was missing, except for Elly's cloak - and Elly herself. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around in astonishment.

"Well, what do you know," he said. "Didn't think she had it in her."

.,.,.,.

It wouldn't be long till morning. He needed to track her down before the crew got active again. People were accustomed to see Elly making brief trips about the ship, but it wasn't a great idea for her to be aimlessly wandering the halls. Where, in a place this size, could he possibly find her?

His mind boiling with possible places to look, he dashed out of the cabin and headed for the elevator. He paused at the exit of the old section to speak to one of Bubo's guards.

"Did you see Elly go out?"

The guard looked at him apprehensively. "Uh... she went out, First Mate? I didn't see her. I _swear_ I was awake the whole time, but I didn't see nothing. Maybe she's in one of the cabins?"

Piranha raced back into the old section.

He strode through the hall back towards his cabin. Searching through all these rooms would take forever. If she was even there. But where else could she have gone without being seen? Where...

He stopped and smacked his forehead. Where? Where else?

He raced back to the cabin, threw off his clothes and put on a long, coarse grey shirt that hung loosely on him, partly obscuring his lack of limbs. He tied it with a belt. It didn't disguise him in the least, of course, but it did give him a less intimidating look than his usual clothing, and it minimized the alienness of his body. He paused for a moment, seeing his black clothes heaped on the floor, and sighed.

Then he jumped up and crawled into the vent system. He sighed again - this time with exasperation. He hadn't even noticed before that the vent was open.

.,.,.,.

For somebody to emerge from the vent at all was unheard of enough, but for it to happen twice in one night was ten times as alarming. A stir rippled through the whole vast space of the slave quarters. Slaves who had fallen back to sleep after the first intrusion were woken by others, they gathered around the small being who was standing there dusting himself off. They stared at him, looked perplexed at each other. First a slave escaping _into_ the slave quarters, to be rapidly hidden from the guards, and now -

"F-First Mate?" an old man said, hesitantly.

Piranha looked at him sharply. "Yes," he said. He waved away a couple of guards who had also become interested, then looked around the crowd. "Does anyone know where Elly is?"

The slaves, coming from many different societies on many planets, all spoke different tongues, but they had worked out a sort of speech that was a blend of many languages mashed together with a stripped-down version of the galactic lingua franca used by the pirates and other interplanetary travellers. Except for the small number of slaves who worked at complicated tasks with the pirates, most of them knew only a few phrases of Galactic. And it was often convenient for them not to know even that much. They gave him blank looks, futile gestures.

Piranha was watching them carefully. He set off in a direction that caused a few startled gasps among the crowd. (It was simply the direction that the fewest of them were looking in, that many of their bodies were blocking or slightly averted from.)

The ship contained two separate levels of slave quarters, each one an enormous area crowded with thousands of people, not to mention that around the perimeter of each level were hundreds of small closed-off rooms, some of which were used to house ill or very young or very old slaves. Elly could be anywhere. At most he had the general hint of a direction.

He moved slowly forward, peering through the dim light, taking care not to trip over or step on the many sleeping bodies scattered about. He was followed by a number of slaves out of curiosity or apprehension, while others who were awake studiously avoided meeting his glance. He didn't try to force any of them to talk to him but went on picking his way across the floor, examining everything closely.

Now and then he did stop and speak to a man or woman who didn't shy off from him too much. Some of them knew who he was, and if they didn't, they were wary of his strange appearance; they answered only in monosyllables if at all. He moved on.

He caught sight of a slight, small form pushing itself into a sitting position on the floor - much too pale in the skin and hair to be Elly, but vaguely familiar. It was a young man who had been sleeping among some others apparently of his own kind. The dark eyes in his light face were looking steadily at Piranha with an expression impossible to make out in the poor light.

Piranha stopped, looking distractedly back at him. Then he noticed a young child standing only a few paces away. A black-haired, ragged little boy, grinning up at him, almost ready to burst with excitement. Piranha smiled.

Disregarding the surrounding adults who were inconspicuously attempting to sidle in front of the boy or edge him away, Piranha came up close to him and crouched down so their faces were on a level. He smiled more, looking the boy in the eyes. The little boy looked confidently back at him.

"Hi," Piranha said. "What's your name?"

The little boy grinned. "Dotillo."

"Oh yeah? Mine's Piranha."

The boy poked a finger at Piranha's sides. He at least seemed to have no problem with the language. Nor with speaking to the First Mate. "Where are your arms?"

"Don't have any."

The little boy laughed delightedly. "You look funny!"

Piranha grinned. "You're right! Hey, Dotillo - do you know Elly?"

Dotillo put on a triumphantly secretive look.

"Do you know where she is?"

The little boy nodded. (Surrounding adults silently winced.)

Piranha stood up. "How fast d'you think you can take me to her?"

The adults were turning away despairingly. They didn't try to interfere. The little boy set off across the room at a run, Piranha close behind.

It wasn't that far. The boy led Piranha across the floor on a winding trail around many groups of slaves, then into the corridor along the side of the room and finally to a door. Slaves watched glumly but kept their distance.

The door was closed. Piranha knocked politely. After a moment, the door opened.

The darkened room was full of children, mostly asleep. There were also a number of women, some obviously pregnant, sitting or lying on the floor. All of them had their faces concealed by shawls or cloaks.

"Let me in, please," said Piranha to the woman who'd opened the door.

Sadly she stood aside. He paused, however, to crouch down and quickly hug Dotillo. The little boy hugged him back with enthusiasm, as though he'd known Piranha all his life. Piranha held onto him for a moment. Then he got up, put his hand briefly on the child's head, and walked cautiously into the room, avoiding with some difficulty the sprawling arms and legs of sleeping toddlers.

He walked straight up to the smallest adult in the room, lying wrapped in a cloak, apparently asleep on the floor. Her back was to him. "Elly," he said quietly.

Slowly she turned over and peered confusedly up into his face. She looked as though she'd fallen into exhausted sleep and was just waking up. Or perhaps she'd been crying. Her face paled, but showed no emotion otherwise. Without hesitation she got to her feet. She gazed at him with some perplexity, perhaps because of his clothing; and with the composure of complete despair.

He took her hand as though she were a child herself. "Come on, Elly."

He led her out of the room and then at a quick pace across the floor to the exit, as she scrambled awkwardly after. The slaves stood aside as they passed. Some lowered their heads solemnly, as if to show respect for a prisoner going to execution.

.,.,.,.

After leading her without a word through the dark corridors and up a flight of stairs, he arrived at the cabin. At the threshold, she balked a little at being dragged back in, but he paid no attention. He opened the door and pulled her through it. Then he walked her over to her chair and sat her down. Stunned, she stared at him. He went around to the other side of the table and sat in his own chair.

"Elly," he said, quietly, as though picking up a briefly interrupted conversation. "Look. You have to get over being terrified of me. It drives me crazy. Maybe you have no idea how it feels to be treated that way, as if I were a mindless beast about to devour you. Or a - or an evil god demanding virgin sacrifice."

She gaped. How could she be doing anything to _him?_

"I'm _not_ Anaconda, you know. I don't _like_ being grovelled to. And I don't get any kick out of being treated like a - like a slaveowner. I can't stand that."

She watched him closely, tensing at every slight move of his body and hands. She couldn't understand why he hadn't torn her apart the moment they came through the door. What was he waiting for?

He leaned back a little in his chair, those dark eyes half-shut, a hint of bitterness in them. "I can understand if you hate me. I know I'm very - impatient. It's so hard for me to - to unwind much. I know it hasn't been easy on you. But regardless of that, you have got to get it through your head that I'm not your enemy. And... I keep thinking... I do have enemies on this ship. That means you do, too. I think a lot about that." He leaned forward again, his eyes fixing sharply on her. She shrank back. "In short, Elly... We need to toughen you up."

She straightened with a jolt. "What?"

That bright black gaze glinted with irony. "That's right. We're going to strengthen our weak points." A wry, faintly mischievous smile crossed his face.

"I'm going to teach you to fight," he said.

At first she didn't even grasp what he'd said, it was so unconnected to reality.

He smiled again, that sardonic little smile, and got out of his chair. "We might as well start now, come on."

"Wh-what?" she stuttered. Then it hit her. _"Fight?"_

"I've been thinking about what to teach you," he went on serenely. "Just how does a solid-body fight? I think you can learn something like what I figured out when I was a kid. How to deal with stupid, oversized jerks. That's what you need."

She couldn't stir from her chair, she was paralyzed. This was worse than being straightforwardly murdered. "I can't. I can't fight."

"I know. That's why I'm going to teach you."

"Piranha. I _can't._ Oh, help - please, please, Piranha, no, I _can't."_

He took hold of her arm. His smile was terrifying to her. Particularly when, as he continued to look into her face, the smile widened slightly to show his teeth.

[End of Part 3]


	21. The Tormenting of Elly, Part 4

_The conclusion of this chapter, finally! I can't stand fussing with it any more. I hope it works. All of you who are martial-artsy will find the training here pretty pathetic — but Piranha works strictly by improvisation._

_It'll probably be a while before chapter 12 comes out, I need to take a little break and work on some other fiction. This blasted story has eaten up two years of my life, and I can't even publish it! (It's been educational though.) I also need to think over the remainder of this monstrosity and see if I can streamline it a bit. It's looking like another 12 to 14 chapters, horribly enough. (At this rate everyone reading this will have wandered off or died long before the finish. Oh well, what can you do.)_

_Thank you all for your comments, support and patience!_

_Rayman © UbiSoft Ent.__  
The rest © Rayfan_

**The Tormenting of Elly, Part Four**

The cabin was fairly large, and Piranha – still grinning rather spookily at Elly, who stood transfixed where he'd left her – shoved the heavy wooden table and chairs out of the way beside the bed and cleared an open space on the floor. Then he returned to stand a few feet away from her and fix her with an evaluative eye.

"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, as she shrank away under his gaze, "Yes, it shouldn't be too hard. You're agile, you've got good coordination, and you're bright. All you need is some confidence."

Elly was literally panting now. She felt as though the air couldn't get down into her lungs, as though her pounding heart would smash through her rib cage at any moment, as though the entire room was closing in around her. Her wide eyes stared at Piranha helplessly. She couldn't speak; she could only faintly shake her head.

"I'm going to show you a few simple moves first, then we'll practice," Piranha said.

He waved at her to back up a few steps. He had a small, restrained, but slightly mischievous smile now that shot through her like an arrow. "Watch," he said.

He must have done some thinking on the subject, for the"moves" he demonstrated were broken down into a series of such simple elements that a five-year-old could have managed them. One was a stance, then a forward push with one hand, followed by the other hand, a little turn of the body, and so on. Added together, the whole sequence could be used to block an incoming opponent. "Okay, Elly, I'll do it again, and you follow along. Slowly now."

Elly tried. But at his first word, her eyes had begun to glaze over. She could hardly force her body to stir, it felt stiff and wooden, barely under her control. At Piranha's insistence, she began to imitate his motions, though she moved dazedly as if hypnotized. He bent forward, stretched out his hands; she did the same, mimicking him right down to his facial expression, as though she were nothing more than a reflection. He talked rapidly as he demonstrated, explaining the technique to her, its purpose, when to use it, what to watch for. She followed his actions, but her honey-coloured eyes were blank. She wasn't taking in a word.

After some repetitions, he got her to perform the sequence on her own. With much prodding and many reminders, eventually she managed to stumble mechanically through it a few times.

"All right," he said at last, going to the far side of the room. "That wasn't too bad, Elly. You see how simple it is? Now comes the fun part. I'm going to run up and attack you, and you deflect my attack with that same routine. I'll run right into your hands and you use my momentum to flip me to your right. I won't be using much force, it'll be easy. Ready?"

At the word "attack," Elly had tensed. As he crouched, ready to run, she turned pale.

"Okay, here goes," he said. And shot towards her at high speed.

Elly gave a little squeak and dropped to the floor, curled in a ball.

Barely in time to keep from falling over her, Piranha windmilled to a halt.

"Elly," he said, after a moment, "What's the problem?"

She only huddled tighter. She didn't move until, with a forcedly patient sigh, he took hold of her arms and hauled her back to her feet.

"Look," he said. "This is only for practice. I _promise_ I won't kill you. Okay? We'll try it slower this time. Just do what I showed you, like this. See? Let's go, and this time, don't collapse."

He put her into position as if setting up a store mannequin and once again went to the far side of he room. He eyed her for a moment. She seemed to be teetering a little, as though not much was holding her up. He crouched. "Take it easy, Elly, there's nothing to worry about. Ready? Go!" And, at about half his previous speed – though still at a run – he came at her.

With a moan, Elly flung up her arms to cover her head and waited for the impact. Piranha shot past her to one side then leapt back in front of her, pulling her hands away from her face. "Stop that! Just do what I showed you!"

"I can't!" Elly cried, at last finding her voice in desperation. But Piranha was already racing across the room back into position. "Piranha! I _can't_ fight!"

"You'd better," he snapped, and lunged forward.

She stood motionless as he charged, her arms dangling. He didn't slow down, his black eyes stayed fixed on her face. She didn't stir. A moment before the collision, he sprang up and flipped in a huge leap over her head and far past her. As his foot touched down on the floor, he twisted and surged again in her direction.

"Elly!" he shouted. "I _will_ hit you! _Do_ something!"

She only hung her head.

Piranha halted a fraction away. He took a step back and looked at her with disgust.

"Is that it, then?" he said. "You won't even try? Some pirate comes at you to cut you in half and you'll just let him do it?"

She lowered her head more, closing her eyes. He sighed again, an impatient huff.

"All right," he said. "All right. That was obviously too big for a first step. We'll take it easier." He snorted, taking hold of her arm. "No unreasonable demands – like forcing you to keep yourself alive."

At last Elly thought she understood why Piranha kept saying they lived in hell. He was about to prove it to her.

The lesson began again. This time, Piranha confined himself only to getting her to move her body around in ways she wasn't used to. He had her do stretching, turning, bending in different directions, and other actions that had nothing obvious to do with fighting. She moved stiffly, nervously, bewildered at the meaninglessness of what she was doing, but as he didn't show any signs of attacking or mention anything about defence, after a time some of the tension faded from her expression. Then he showed her how to fall and roll on the floor and jump up again without hurting herself. Once she caught on, in a tiny unadmitted way she could almost not hate doing that. By the time he ended the long session, she was daring to wonder if she might possibly live through this after all.

But as he was going out the door to start his much-delayed morning rounds through the ship, he told her, "Keep practicing. You should be much better next time I see you." And panic took hold of her again.

* * *

Now that Piranha had set himself this task, he seemed to become obsessed. He stopped his brawling in the bar, he didn't wander the ship at night anymore, indeed he could scarcely tear himself away from the cabin. Not only did he stay late in the mornings to work with Elly, and keep her going in the evening long past the point when all she wanted to do was collapse into bed, but he was liable to appear unexpectedly in the middle of the day and put her through her paces once again.

If she had been nervous of him before, now the sight of the ironic little grin that would cross his face when he was about to start another session filled her with despair. It meant that an hour later she would be bruised, aching, and far worse than that, agonizingly embarrassed. He seemed to take a sadistic delight in making her perform strange moves, weirdly graceful or sudden jerky motions that in themselves scared her. He forced her to learn a long series of stretches, bends, runs, sharp turns, flips, falls, dodges, jumps, and rolls, and memorize the sequence until she could go through it perfectly; then made her learn a different one, then another, always adding more difficult stretches and combinations, getting her to use more and more of the room and the objects in it, sometimes making her do quite silly things like jumping onto the bed and bouncing off it again, and simply ignoring any reaction on her part. Day by day, he would add on more varied and complex actions, demanding contortions sometimes that made her wonder if he really didn't realize that a human body couldn't _do_ that. Until, after a while, she found that she could. In fact, she was developing better balance, coordination, and strength, which she hardly noticed until the day he turned the big wooden table onto its side and made her walk slowly along the narrow up-ended rim. To her astonishment she was able to accomplish it quite easily without falling. She had never in her life done anything athletic; indeed, she'd never seen anyone else do anything like that either. The only methods of fighting she'd ever seen depended on sharp or explosive weapons, a small repertoire of crude but efficient techniques, and brute strength; highly skilled training played no part in them. And the pirates certainly weren't about to take time off from drinking and gambling to practice tightrope walking.

For Piranha, although he fretted privately that it was taking forever just to get her up to the point where he could _start_ training her, the preliminaries had moments of interest. In the beginning, he noted, her jumps and rolls and flips and so on were very stiff and awkward — most unlike her movements in unselfconscious moments, which were usually well-controlled, straightforward, with a compact grace. In time, going over and over the moves he taught her, she gradually became less nervous, and as she went through a sequence her motions became less forced, they showed less hesitancy and resistance. Day by day, doing her drills, as she followed her path around the floor it developed into something like a gymnastics routine, one motion flowing into another with a slightly hesitant but smooth suppleness that was quite pretty to see. If Piranha stayed very quiet and still, and she became so absorbed she didn't remember he was watching, she might even whisper a song under her breath to accompany that semi-dance. It was quite an entertainment. That is, until she paused at some point and caught sight of him grinning at her. Then her grace would abruptly vanish, and the next move was liable to land her sprawling on the floor.

* * *

When she had gotten so good at her drills that she could run flawlessly through a long sequence of moves that took her all around the room, repeat it any number of times, and also smoothly execute a whole series as he called them out to her — just when she was beginning to feel a faint, deeply repressed suspicion that the body control she was learning might turn out not to be the worst thing that ever had happened to her, he floored her again.

"Okay," he said, grinning like a predator about to sample some still-living snack, "Today you're going to add a partner to your ballet." He held out a plastic dowel he'd picked up somewhere – a long, thin, lightweight stick. "See this? Now remember the right-push you've been practicing? I want to you use it on this guy. Only, do it about ten times as fast, see?" With a mischievous look, he showed her the gesture she'd long practiced of pushing out with her hands and whole body, pivoting a little to the side. But while her motion had been slow and gentle, now she was startled to see the same motion as a fierce thrust to repel an attack.

Elly stared at him, horrified betrayal in her eyes. In all the preoccupation with accomplishing physical maneuvers, she'd almost forgotten about that business of fighting. Now her blood turned to ice. Her eyes fixated on the stick; she couldn't talk.

He put the stick into her hands and made her hold it out, and again demonstrated the simple move he wanted, being careful to do it much less aggressively this time. "It's going to come towards you _slowly,_ you just knock it aside, that's all. Simple, isn't it?"

Elly stood paralyzed as he extracted the stick from her hands again and backed off a little. He eyed her dubiously.

"You get what I mean, Elly? Show me the right-push, the way you've always done it."

Robotically, her hands performed the gesture. But there was that glazed look in her eyes.

"Let's try it," he said. "Just knock it aside." And slowly, without any hint of threat, he slid the dowel through the air towards her as though it were somebody's arm.

It was as unbelievable to Elly as it was to him, that the moment he moved that harmless, completely symbolic enemy in her direction, instead of pushing it away she flopped to the floor with an anguished moan.

Piranha blinked. "What now?"

"Oh," she groaned. "I _can't."_

"Elly. You can brush aside a stick. I _know_ you can do that."

"Not – not right now."

He closed his eyes, gathering together some shreds of patience. Then he took hold of her arms, as he had often done before, and set her on her feet.

"Elly. Look at this stick. Look at it. Can this hurt you? Even if I hit you with it, it'd just break! Come on, let's try again."

Elly had been staring blankly at the stick. But then at Piranha's words, she recoiled violently.

_"No!_ You _can't_ fight back! You _mustn't!_ They'll _kill_ you!" And she flung herself down again.

Piranha snatched her out of the air before she hit the floor. Instantly she went limp as though struck dead.

"For god's sake, Elly, fighting back — that's the whole point!" he protested.

Her head was moving slowly from side to side, her eyes remote. "No, no, no," she murmured, in a distant, dreaming voice, _"Mother..."_ Her head drooped.

For a moment, Piranha didn't stir, as she hung in his hands. Then he sighed. He hauled her over to the table and dropped her into a chair. She huddled a little, eyes shut.

He sat down himself and put a hand over his face. Not for the first time, he had the feeling he'd plunged into waters far deeper and more mysterious than he'd ever known existed.

Perhaps she was right after all. Perhaps her utter inability to resist was better protection than any degree of fighting skill could ever be. Piranha knew all too well how wrenchingly hard it was to hurt anything so defenseless.

But he had decided to teach her to fight, and _she was going to learn._

It wasn't in him to give up on a goal merely because it was impossible. Besides, it had become clear to him that she _needed_ this training, needed it in some way that he never could have imagined when they began.

Beyond that, she wasn't the only one who needed it. Painful as it was, the process was doing something to him, too.

It took more time, everything took time, but with patient repetition and practice of the same old gymnastic sequences, Piranha gradually got Elly accustomed at least to the concept that the routines she had been doing were not completely unrelated to fighting. Although for a couple of days after that awful shock, she had appeared to lose all memory of everything he'd laboriously ground into her head, the routines were so much a part of her by now that despite her panic, after a bit of drilling she was able to pick them up again and get through them in a recognizable fashion. From there, it was a matter of pushing her forward, however delicately. Bit by bit, day by day, he prodded and cajoled and occasionally mildly bullied her into the most minute but cumulative advances. He couldn't drill with her directly – the sight of him approaching, even in slow motion, drove everything out of her head and she would simply give up. But after much practice, eventually she was able raise a hand to ward off the gentle approach of a stick, instead of collapsing. He concocted a vaguely humanoid dummy and forced her to face up to that, while he hid behind it and had it move towards her at snail-like speed. With each new thing, she instantly lost hold of everything she'd ever learned and collapsed back into helplessness; but then, forced to continue, she would revive and add another infinitesimal fraction of progress to that hard-won total.

None of this was accomplished without days when Piranha thought his head might explode. To see her having such unspeakable difficulty with something that came to him with so little effort was beyond frustrating, it approached torture. It was all the more maddening that now and then, in a rare unguarded moment, she might perform those scary moves of defence or attack with a sureness that told him she could learn everything he wanted to teach her; maybe already had. But the moment that ability surfaced, it would be gone again, as though it had frightened itself away.

Elly was perplexed, not to say guilty – given the way she constantly disappointed him – that Piranha's manner to her was becoming so much less abrasive. As though her relentless ineptitude was finally wearing down his rough surface. Even after finishing the last drill of the day, though he looked as weary and exasperated as she felt, he rarely gave way to impatience. But still he remained distant. As he sat at the table before going to bed, face averted from her in his usual silence, Elly couldn't feel at ease. Nevertheless, that awful drowning, blinding black miasma that had stifled all the air out of the room for the past months, she didn't feel that in his presence, either. She didn't know what to make of it. He must be hiding something.

Often they would go to sleep without a word, both of them sunk in their own thoughts. Whatever his might be, Elly's were desperate. Piranha could only be holding himself back with that same violence he had so often turned outward against others. So far, she hadn't managed to push him beyond all endurance. But her apprehension grew day by day, along with her guilty sense of disobedience. He was her master, she ought to do what he wanted her to; but she lived in fear of what he might want next. And of what would happen when, inevitably, she ultimately couldn't do it.

* * *

It was one of those rare practice sessions when everything did go well. For once Elly had performed flawlessly against the stick, she had pulled herself together to block the attacking arm of the dummy; miraculously, she had even managed to make some feeble semblance of an attack on it. Piranha, encouraged, decided to get her to stand up to himself without any buffer.

"Just push me," he said. He stood in front of her, his hat, jacket and vest off, looking as un-formidable as he could manage. "That's all, Elly. I'm not going to make a move. Just push me."

She glanced despairingly at her hands as though they'd been jammed onto her body as a prank and she hadn't a clue what to do with them. Miserably, she stood still and gazed at Piranha.

"Gears and grommets, Elly, just push me! You've done it before!"

"But we weren't _fighting,"_ she groaned.

"We aren't fighting now!"

"And you were—" She halted abruptly.

His voice dropped to its darkest register. "I was ... not Piranha?"

She lowered her head. He resisted a momentary urge to shake her. He gave a harsh sigh. "Like this," he said. Taking hold of her hands, he raised them up, her arms and body trailing inertly behind like spaghetti. He thrust her hands against his own chest, and then flipped back as though he'd been struck by a cannonball — almost forgetting to let go and nearly dragging her after him.

She recovered her balance as he rolled across the floor and lay there.

After a pause, "Pir-Piranha?"

He glanced up at her. "See what you can do?"

"I didn't do that."

He hopped to his feet. "This time, you will." And stood in front of her again. "Come on, Elly, you know what to do. Let me have it."

She rowed her hands ineffectually. "What if I hurt you?"

He choked back a gasp of laughter. "I wish you'd try! Come on now." And he closed his eyes, put his hands behind him, stood waiting.

There was a long, long pause. The moment was becoming more and more painfully ridiculous.

Then there was a sort of small breathy burst, and he was smacked backwards onto the floor. His lightweight body tumbled halfway to the wall before he stopped himself.

He looked up at her. She was on the floor again, cramped into a tight little knot of anguish, visibly shaking.

He got up and walked over to her. "Elly, are you all right?"

She only quaked harder. Elly rarely cried, but there were tears emerging now from the wrapped-up ball of her body, running out from under the hands clamped over her face, streaming down her arms and puddling on the floor.

"That was very good, Elly," he said, getting down on the floor to whisper close to her hidden face. "You should be proud of yourself."

She moaned in horror. He took hold of her arms to lift her up, but it was impossible to unroll her. "Elly?" he said. "Elly?"

It went on like that for a while. Though he spoke to her softly, pulled at her gently, he couldn't budge her. Those quiet sobs, the tears, the trembling, it was more than he could stand. He'd be hugging her and petting her like a child in a moment.

Forcibly he pulled himself back. He gave her a light pat on the shoulder and retreated to the table, where he sat quietly for the next fifteen minutes, until at last she uncurled herself and sat up, wiping her eyes and sighing. Timidly she glanced in Piranha's direction.

He met her look with a mild, wry smile. "Doing better now?"

"I – I don't know what happened to me... I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Come and sit."

They sat in silence for a little while. Then Piranha said casually, gazing off into the air, "You have talent, you know. You could do this stuff if you wanted to. That was a nice little whack you gave me!"

Elly, blushing painfully, croaked, "I – I'm so sorry–"

He looked at her directly and grinned. "No, no! What you're supposed to say is, _'HA! Take that, you annoying bastard!' "_ Her face went completely red, and she hid behind her hands. Still grinning, he added, "You know, I think you should actually say it. Go on, say it! _'You-annoying-bastard!' "_

Behind her hands, Elly firmly shook her head.

He reached over and touched her arm. "Relax, Elly. Everything's fine. I'm pleased with you, got that? Very pleased. Now look, I have to get ready to leave. Why don't you do those cooling-down exercises, and I'll give you a break for the rest of the day."

She peered through her fingers. He smiled. She gazed at him with those earnest, worried, uncertain golden eyes; then a hesitant smile half-showed behind her hands.

He got up and went to wash and get his armoured vest and jacket and the rest of his equipment. Elly, a bit shakily at first, got up and began the familiar series of practice moves, the stretches, leaps, kicks, rolls, and all the rest of the actions which she instinctively turned into something between a gymnastics routine and pure dance. As she went on, she moved with more ease, with increasing confidence, in fact with more certainty than ever before. The faint humming with which she sometimes accompanied herself became stronger, firmer, and after a little while she was unconsciously singing out loud, a rather slow, melodious song with soft-sounding words in some foreign language.

Piranha, having finished dressing, was pressed up flat against the wall watching her, fascinated. He didn't stir, for fear of attracting her attention. Eventually, though, as she made a turn she noticed him looking at her, and she halted in embarrassment.

"Don't stop," Piranha said. There was a softness to his smile that she hadn't seen in a long time. "That was beautiful, Elly."

"Beautiful?"

"Your dancing. And your singing! You have such a pretty voice! How come I've never heard you sing before?"

She winced. "I didn't mean to —"

He walked towards her. "Where did you learn that song? It has such a strange melody."

"I don't know. It's always been there. I suppose I must have learned it on my home planet. Perhaps my mother. I don't even understand the words."

He said, "Do you know any others?"

"No..."

He looked disappointed. Then smiled a little again. "Maybe one day I could teach you some. From my planet. To hear you sing them with that beautiful voice, that would be... I would like that."

He stood still, abstractedly. Then shook himself a little. He went to one of the wooden chairs and sat down in it backwards, resting his hands on the back and his chin meditatively on his hands. Elly walked up to him, puzzled. He sighed.

"I really miss music, Elly. I can't tell you how much. I miss it like the sea air, the blue mountains, the starry curve of the night sky, all those... things."

"You like singing? The pirates play music and sing sometimes."

"Yeah, when they're drunk! That's not the kind of music I was thinking of."

"What other kinds are there?"

He looked at her with an odd, distant, almost trancelike melancholy. "There are instruments, Elly, that make sounds so sweet they would drop you in your tracks. And when there are dozens of them together..." He closed his eyes. A shadowy anger drifted across his face. "Damn that Anaconda... _provincial backwater_ ... arrogant, ignorant _jerk."_ Elly eyed him nervously; but the anger was gone already, the melancholy was back. As she looked at him, a sense of distance, of stillness, crept over her.

She felt surrounded by a dark softness, the warm, humid air of a planet. It was dusk, she was in a place she'd never been, though it felt utterly natural and familiar — much more so than the harsh, dirty ship that was the only world she knew. A little light breeze startled her; and it was as though she could hear trees rustling, soft sounds overhead and all around her, murmurous voices that reached into her like gentle hands pulling her towards an unremembered past. Her breath caught.

And then there was the faint sound of an instrument, of a soft, distant, whispered birdlike note, far out in the forest. Another echoed it, nearby, hidden in the trees, and then another picked up the tone, far off in a different direction; with all the sounds softened, magnified by the moist night air. Then the three joined together in a little musical phrase as though all were struck at once by the same thought; playing first in unison, then a simple harmony, inexpressibly sweet and stirring, that brought tears to her eyes. And as the phrase ended, from a different direction another, different birdlike instrument called, adding its voice from a long distance; and another, and another, and another...

In front of her, suddenly, he clapped his hands over his face. Elly, jolted out of that world, jolted back into their drab room, took a step back. He was silent, motionless, perhaps he didn't even know she was there; but anything might happen when he opened those eyes. She didn't want to be in their line of fire, she didn't want to see what they might look like when he returned. Quietly she slipped away into the bathroom and shut the door.

And huddled on the cold floor of the shower stall. It was still there in her head, her eyes, her ears, that mystic world, those soft, almost-heard sounds – not quite heard but _felt_, they still reverberated through her. Tears came to her eyes again.

"No wonder he can't bear to remember," she whispered. "No wonder he—" She wiped her eyes. The unimaginable life he must have lived, this mysterious, shifting creature who was so strange, so incomprehensible to her, and yet — for a moment, right now, she felt he was completely transparent, she understood him in the depths of her own being, even if she didn't know the words for what it was she knew.

She wanted to weep again, for the second time in an hour; for herself, for her own life, for the awful, claustrophobically limited narrowness of it, which for the first time was pitilessly clear to her. And for him too, with his enormous capacity for experience and feeling, to be crushed down into a life in which all experience, and every feeling, could only be a source of anguish.

She didn't go out of the bathroom. Dragged back from that distant place, he might be savage. But... the paralyzing terror she'd had of him for so long, it was gone. He was dangerous, no doubt of that; but she wasn't afraid of him any more. Suddenly she could understand his explosiveness; even feel a flicker of that fury, that agony, that outrage in herself. It had never occurred to her before to feel anger. That she might have a _right_ to feel anger. To feel _outrage_ — that her home world was long lost to her, that she barely remembered her family, that she didn't know her own language, that she had been cheated of her life for no good reason; and that so many thousands of others had been cheated. How many individual tragedies had been created by this ship, how many, each one as harrowing as her own. As _his..._

It was a startling thought. Fierce though he was, he was more like _her_ than like Anaconda. He was more like her.

When she cautiously emerged from the bathroom, some half an hour later, he was gone. Probably not to return for a day or two, as was usual after any upsetting event. This time, though, she didn't feel the usual relief. She wished after all that she could have seen what his eyes looked like. How they might have looked at her. Whether that dark, whispering forest might have showed through in them.

[End of Chapter 11]


	22. Quest, Part 1

**_Notes:  
_**_1. This chapter carries on from the end of the last one without a break, so considering it's been five (!) months you might want to refresh your memory of the last few paragraphs of the previous chapter. The scene will be rather misleading and confusing otherwise, and trust me, you don't need any added confusion here.  
__2. I know his thoughts are often contradictory and/or repetitious. Give the poor guy a break. Don't you have repetitiously contradictory thoughts once in a while?  
__3. Also, if I haven't mentioned this before, I consider that "Ly" is pronounced "Lee." Some of the sentences in this chapter might sound pretty strange if you pronounce her name "Lie."  
__4. The rest of the chapter is under construction. No predictions on how long it'll take, but I'm pretty sure it'll be less than five months. _

_Rayman & Ly © Ubisoft Entertainment  
__The rest belongs to me, I worked hard enough for it, yeesh._

**Chapter 12: Quest****, Part 1**

He was roaming through the ship, as he hadn't done in many days; the old agony of restlessness was in him again. He paced down the center of the corridors, subtly shying away from the metal walls, his posture erect, for there were crew about, but his eyes lowered, his face hidden under the big brim of his hat.

He'd let himself get pulled in, hadn't he, let himself be touched by that poor girl and her struggles, by her – he pulled his hat down hard, angrily covering even more of his face – by her singing. And then his smothered, stifled past, lurking in wait, had snatched the opportunity to ambush him. Not just him – something of that vision seemed to have reached her, too. It wasn't fair, she didn't deserve that kind of treatment, but inevitably he'd frightened her yet again.

For that matter, he had frightened himself at least as much. It kept drifting back to him now, ghostily, vengefully – that soft air, that sweet dark forest, those haunting sounds; halting his breath, crushing his chest, hurting his eyes. There, darting behind the trunk of a tree, he caught a glimpse of the evil sprite that tormented his days, the elusive, the mocking, the heartless little Guardian.

And those mercilessly clear blue eyes, caught in flight – halted, slowly turned, fixed on him. _Get out. You don't belong here. _

The embracing trees melted away. Piranha's downcast eyes shuttered over.

"Ly," he said involuntarily. And recoiled, so hard that he startled a few passing pirates. Oh, gods, no, don't attract her attention!

He surged forward, abruptly he was fleeing down the corridor as if chased by a flock of demons. With effort, he pulled himself back to a stiff walk. Seeing him run would give the pirates the idea he was in trouble, which would spark life back into all his latent enemies on board, next thing they'd be after him, and he'd be in trouble for real.

But he _was_ in trouble. There couldn't be any trouble worse than this.

He walked on, a little shaky. It was hard to control his extremities; he had nervous thoughts of accidentally leaving behind a hand or foot without noticing, in the intensity of his preoccupation.

If only he could slip away into the forest, to calm down, collect his thoughts, regenerate himself.

Into the forest. He yanked his hat down again to conceal his prickling eyes, took a long, tremulous breath. There weren't going to be any more forests. He was part of this ship now. He was going to be here for a long, long time. Any future dealings with forests would most likely have to do with burning them down.

As if stung, his body again leaped forward. Savagely he jerked it back like a runaway horse. Of all the painfully unnatural things he'd had to do since coming to the ship, this did him the most violence. Concealing his reactions. Putting up a false front. Divorcing thought and emotion from action. Lying.

He halted. Like an actual poisonous fluid, a painful torrent of rage and hatred flooded through his body. _Anaconda._ His black-gloved fists clenched, his teeth set; involuntarily he turned to head in the direction of the Boss's sanctuary. Then, before taking a step, once again forcibly halted himself. A thick surge of nausea went through him, as it always did when he fought back his strong natural instinct for immediate, decisive action. But that was his life now – suppressing, crushing into submission every instinct that used to be right, that ought to have been right, that no longer was.

Any thought of attacking Anaconda was a violation of his contract. He would never violate his contract. He was never going to give that bastard an excuse to go back to his planet, no matter what he had to do to himself to keep his word. That meant that sooner or later, he would no longer be able to keep it...

He turned away. Hardly able to see where he was going, he set off at random down a corridor, striding quickly. But however much he hurried, he couldn't leave behind the clamour of thoughts that pursued him like an angry mob.

* * *

Huge as the ship was, by now Piranha knew it almost as well as – as someone had once known every river, tree and path of the mountains and forests of his world. It had always been his way to seek out every handsbreadth and foothold of his environment.

Now even more so. Exploration kept him busy on sleepless nights, when he didn't dare let down his guard for fear of those seeking eyes, the green almond-shaped eyes of his planet. Or when the thought of sleep itself was unbearable, with its suffocating hallucinations that he had to struggle out from under like a pile of boulders – only to wake into the knowledge that the nightmare was real.

No, he didn't sleep much. As a result, there probably wasn't another non-robot on the ship who knew the vessel so well. The only parts he hadn't ventured into were the hazardous maintenance tunnels surrounding the ship's engines, with their proximity to gigantic, unshielded machine parts, and their enormous, erratic power surges. That, and the front half of the tenth level, the most heavily guarded area on the ship, quite inaccessible. Even air vents didn't seem to lead into it. Aside from those places, he could have drawn a three-dimensional blueprint of the ship's visible and concealed structures, detailed enough to predict where most of Anaconda's secret "technological" routes probably were – like the one the Boss had led him through to give him the blast gun, so long ago. In fact, Piranha already had uncovered a few more.

A time-consuming and mostly pointless game, but it was better than lying awake night after night, hour after hour in the dark, listening to the sleeping breaths of the helpless kid who bore the brunt of his exhaustion and insanity. Listening to the point of hallucination, until those soft breaths melded into the wide green eyes of the jewelled planet...

Ly. As the two primary guardians of their planet, he and she had always had a deep and close connection. Each had always sensed when the other was in trouble, they had always come to help each other. She couldn't help him now, nothing could. But that faint, wispy link to her was still there, that alarm trigger – and it connected him, through her, to the life and breath of his world. That painful, maddening connection that he clung to with all his strength. It kept his mission before him, forced him to stay alive, set the boundaries that were probably the only thing preventing him from being sucked in, digested and absorbed by this vile place.

And it terrified him. He had to hold onto her, but she mustn't know, she must never become aware of him, he couldn't endure for her to see what he had become; he couldn't bear for her even to know that he was alive. Liar and deceiver and embodiment of falsehood that he had become, he had to lie even to Ly; Ly, who laughed and brushed lies aside like cobwebs. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do – keeping the connection alive, keeping a surreptitious finger on her, but if she ever sensed it and whirled around to look, he wouldn't be there...

No, he'd be off shoving a dagger into some defenseless native.

Not slowing his rapid pace down the hall, he shut his eyes, gasping. How much longer could he keep his grip on the two scorching ropes pulling him apart? Be the Guardian of the magic planet and the First Mate of the _Insurrection_ both together? To be that open, guileless creature, transparent as diamond, and a smoky entanglement of lies? The Guardian who in spite of himself had betrayed his trust, and the First Mate who couldn't help but be a double agent...

A loud thump recalled him to his surroundings, he paused and looked about him in surprise. In his preoccupation he'd wandered across the ship and up several flights of stairs, he was on the eighth level. The officers' bar was just down the hall, he could hear the clanking cups, the rumbling voices, smell the drink and sweat. Another long, heavy surge of hatred washed through him. The _enemy,_ no less an enemy because he was supposed to be part of it. If Anaconda was the enemy's face, this shipful of brutes was its body. The sight of any crew or officer, human or robot, sent a hot glow into his eyes, a rush of violence into his fists, a mindless ferocity that was harder and harder to quell.

And day by day, remembering that to a large degree he served as this shambling monster's _brain_ –

Eyes shut, fists taut, he waited, breathing slowly; trying to still the rage and despair and sheer revulsion of that thought. Trying to still the rage and despair and revulsion...

Someone opened a door, and a roar of heavy laughter emerged from the barroom down the hall, bowling over him like a series of falling rocks.

He opened his eyes. _That_ was it. He needed a fight.

* * *

Sitting alone at one of the barroom tables, oil-smudged and with a couple of fresh rips in his jacket, Piranha contemplated the drink before him with cold distaste.

A fight. Good luck. As he came into the bar, there was the predictable reaction: panicked stares, a frozen moment, stampede. It would be comical if he had any sense of humour left. The only way he could get an opponent was to block the door and fix on a victim with such an unmistakable glare that everybody else backed gratefully out of the way.

And after all his work to goad some reluctant robot into battle, what good did it do? Once again, after pounding his chosen enemy into the floor, he turned away only more depressed. That fiery moment of vengeful victory... it was no victory, and nothing was avenged. Somehow, in starting the fight he was only defeating himself. He hated the metallic louts as much as ever, but what kind of victory could he have? They still owned the ship. Anaconda still owned him. Nothing changed.

He'd never tried the ship's "rum" before. Its smell was stomach-turning, and when he swirled it in the cup it sloshed glutinously like machine oil. Alcohol never had much effect on him, and he didn't find it particularly pleasant. But he was in such a state today that he'd decided to give the stuff a try, if only in the interest of research. However, a single sip of the greasy concoction was enough to change his mind. He pushed the glass away, grimacing.

And sat there feeling a little aggrieved. Maybe getting drunk was the exact thing he needed.

Yes, to be a perfect pirate at last. The last tap that would send him flying over the cliff edge.

The accelerating slide downwards. Why was he resisting so hard? Clawing and scrabbling and clinging with torn fingers as he slipped down a steep hill towards the abyss, did he really think he had a hope in hell of not falling? Wouldn't it at least make for better drama if he deliberately short-circuited his fate and jumped?

He chuckled bitterly. For a guy who had once been infamous for his practical jokes, it was fair enough that the best one was played against himself. How much better could it get? Living moment by moment in horror of one day becoming _what he already was._

What was he trying to prove? His position was impossible, flatly impossible. He'd been rejected long ago by the power at the heart of his planet, if you wanted to put it that way – the first Guardian ever to have been defeated, to have brought calamity on his people. Yet he was still trying to protect them, though they didn't even know he was alive. At the same time, he had to fulfil his promise to the Boss.

Anaconda had instantly seen, more clearly than he himself, what he would be doing to himself with their agreement. He had set himself up as the pawn of _both_ sides, in the silent, unstated, almost invisible battle still under way between Anaconda and the Guardian. He must submit to every sadistic, degrading whim of the Boss, and at the same time he must be the ruthless commander of an unruly army of criminals, and – he had to do it all while squirming under the painful control of the Guardian, who thrust him mercilessly into piracy and yet dug talons into him at every pirate-like act he committed.

He couldn't be that passive, it wasn't in his nature – and it wasn't possible in this situation. If he must be a pirate, he must _be_ a pirate, taking it on without reservation – a life of monumental greed, of craving only plunder and power, of feeling only scorn for the corpses he crushed in the process of acquiring them. There was no other way to do it.

As Anaconda – that knowing bastard – had once said, a pirate had to throw himself into the role full force. It was true. As his men were wrapping up the final days on this planet, topping off the last crates of booty, stuffing the last dozens of prisoners into the already overcrammed slave quarters, scouring the area for the last few fleeing natives who had managed to elude slaughter or capture up till now, it was clear to Piranha that unless you could approach taking a swig of rum or running a dagger through a heart with equal aplomb, being a pirate would either bring you to madness, or kill you. Plenty of new recruits didn't last long; the ones who survived were the ones who could stomach that kind of life.

It hadn't been so hard for him at first. In the crisis he was faced with at the moment he took on Piranha, everything he had done had come quite naturally. But as he became more powerful on the ship, as he moved on from securing his own survival to fulfilling his duties as Anaconda's man, the things he had to do were less and less natural, they were acts that only a pirate could do, and they stirred responses in him that – that only a pirate could deal with.

In dragging himself back from his well-earned death to become Piranha, he hadn't deluded himself that he was coming back to _life._ Piranha, that dark mechanism, had been brought into existence for one purpose only. He was supposed to be the Guardian's faceless, voiceless, mechanical tool, whose emotions, if they existed, were of no importance.

The problem was, death is a kind of perfection, and he wasn't that perfect. Things did reach him, did cause reactions. Elly. The people of this plundered planet. The sight of his own hand on the hilt of a sword. Memory. Inside the Guardian's machine there was something still moving, still responding, incapable of passive obedience. Either to the whims of the Boss or to the fierce choke-hold control of the Guardian.

There wasn't any sane balance possible for him. He was existing in a seething, tortured, impossible state of resisting every move he made in the process of making it. There was no other way. Unless he went on fighting himself with every breath – unless he _hated_ Anaconda and this place and all these robots and men in it who lived only to destroy, abhorred them all as enemies, reviled himself as one of them – yet simultaneously fought the paralyzing control of the Guardian – unless he resisted every impulse in any direction, he would be absorbed by the pirates, he would become them, he would disappear into the ship. Or he would die, drowned in contradictions. The pillaging of planet after planet would go on as it always had, the burning eyes of the Guardian would be snuffed out, his own world would become an open target, and only the tall figure of Anaconda would remain, standing above the carnage, arms folded, yellow eyes glowing in his dark face, red cape sweeping around him; once again, as always, triumphant.

And that would be the end of the agonizing questions, the ones that attacked him every moment of his life: Burning in this hell, what was he being punished for? For having lost his world to the pirates? For freeing it again by becoming a pirate himself? Which was the worse evil? Which was he atoning for? Both? What else should he have done? What else _could_ he have done?

* * *

The shadowy, green-scented forest flashed across his senses again, his fingers felt its rough bark and cool water, its soft colours shifted across his vision, he heard its private whisper, and the combined scents of the earth, of the leaves and shoots and flowers and mosses, pierced through him with physical pain. He closed his eyes. Such an anguish of longing, stirring up the hatred and despair that hadn't hit so hard in weeks, not since he had been training Elly.

With his eyes closed, he could feel the presence of every living being in the room – those who hadn't fled when he came in – each one localized in the dark like an x-ray image, a glowing center of toxic radiation. But the vileness that emanated from himself overwhelmed them all.

(End of Part I)


	23. Quest, Part 2

Rayman © UbiSoft Entertainment. You'll have to deal with me regarding the rest.  
Parts 3&4 of this chapter to follow.

** > > > > > > >**

**Chapter 12: Quest, Part 2**

"Read your palm?" Somebody had been saying that for a while.

Dredged up at last from the stifling depths of his thoughts, Piranha turned in his chair to see a man standing behind him. It was no pirate, therefore a slave – an ancient, wizened figure in rough dirty grey robes, with papery skin, a scant frizz of white hair, and skeleton-thin cheeks grizzled with a week's coarse, bristly grey beard. Not very tall to begin with, he was so shrunken and bent with age that his intense though watery stare was right at Piranha's eye level.

"What did you say?" Piranha said.

The old man stretched out a pallid, blotchy, bony hand on a long skinny arm, groping rather creepily towards Piranha's face. He didn't smell any too good, either. "Tell your fortune, young fella? Read your palm?"

Piranha rolled his eyes. "Don't bother me, old man. Go about your business."

The old slave chuckled. "That _is_ my business, you greenhorn. Let me read your palm."

Piranha got out of his chair. If anything, he was a fraction taller than the old slave. "Look, friend, I don't know what you're up to, but I'm in no mood to be pestered. Take off."

The old man's faded grey eyes peered avidly at Piranha's jacket and a few of the daggers, stuck into his vest underneath, whose handles were just barely visible. "My, aren't you well armed? Expecting trouble, young fella?"

"Maybe you haven't noticed this is a pirate ship?"

The old slave chuckled again. "That's right. And I'm the pirate soothsayer."

Piranha's forehead wrinkled. "Fortuneteller, eh? Well, here's a prediction for you. Severe storm warnings. Volcanic eruption possible. Exercise extreme caution! Now beat it before I find myself doing something to an old man I'd later regret."

The slave didn't budge. His red-rimmed eyes stared directly into Piranha's with a touch of what must have been either mischief or insanity. "You a violent fella? That's all to the good. Let me read your palm, it won't cost you much."

"Cost? You want me to pay for the privilege of being annoyed by you?" Numb with disgust and weariness, still in the grip of his dismal thoughts, Piranha started to turn away.

"Oh, it's an easy price. I just want you to kill me. With one of those lovely daggers. Or a gun would be fine."

"You wacko," Piranha snorted. He began to walk away, but felt those spidery fingers clutch the back of his coat. Fiercely he swept around, yanking his jacket out of the old man's hands. "Are you deaf? Get _away_ from me!"

"What's the matter, don't want to get your knives dirty?"

"Oh, for god's sake!" Piranha gave the slave a light shove, sending him staggering back a few steps.

But unfazed, the old man instantly returned, peering at him closely. "You're built pretty strange, ain't you? You must be the First Mate." Piranha's wolfish glare didn't faze him either. "So," the slave went on cheerfully, "being as you're the top puppy of this heap of snarling dogs, I'll give you your fortune for free. But you can still kill me if–"

"Shut _up!"_

"– you want to, afterwards."

Piranha dived at him. With surprising agility the old man scooted away. Piranha followed him for a few steps then paused. The slave, halfway across the room, hovered ready to flee. They eyed each other for a moment, each poised to lunge if the other stirred. Piranha feinted as if to run. The old man fled.

With a sigh, Piranha turned back to his chair. He sat down, pulled his drink close to him as if for protection, and shut his eyes.

In a moment there was a spidery grip on his collar. Disbelievingly, he groaned and turned towards the intruder.

"Blew off some steam, young fella? Feel better? Now, I won't bother you, I'll just sit down here."

Piranha shook his head and turned away as the old man sat in the chair to his right.

"Isn't this friendly? Buy me a drink, lad, it's the least you could do."

Piranha shoved his full cup towards the man. "Here. I don't want it."

"I thank ya." As the slave was rapidly emptying the cup, Piranha silently got to his feet and headed for the door. A moment later, the old man darted in front of him.

"You've paid me, now you _have_ to have your fortune."

"That wasn't–"

"You're going to hear it anyway, young sprout. Show me your hand."

Piranha pulled back, growling. "Lad, young fella, sprout," he rumbled. "I'm not as young as you think. Odds are I've been around a lot longer than you."

The old man squinted at him unimpressed. "That may be, but I'm still old and you still aren't. You're fresh off the assembly line, boyo. Now you gave me a drink, and I'm giving you a prophecy."

"Shove off."

"You're a tough customer, pup. Right then, I'll make a deal with you. I give you something valuable, and you let me read your palm."

Piranha suspended his irritation for a moment, smiling dryly. "Don't tell me you've got anything valuable."

"How do you know I don't?"

There was a silence. Piranha sighed.

"All right. If part of the agreement is that you disappear afterwards, I'll go along with it. Deal?"

"Deal. Now give me your hand."

"Wait, aren't you supposed to give me something first?"

"What is it with you young bucks nowadays? Always in a rush. It's not kindly to make an old man work so hard."

Piranha gave him a sardonic look. "You want _kindness_ now? From a pirate?"

The slave laughed shortly. "You, a pirate? Hah, you don't even know what a pirate is."

Piranha's black eyes flashed. "Look, slave–"

The old man went on without a break, with growing oratorical fervor. "Why, you've barely arrived here. What do you know of this ship? Were you here when the men of old created it? Did you witness the violent birth of this vast robot world? Have you tallied the plunder of ancient days, when they had only to reach out a hand–"

"What?" Piranha cut in. _"Men_ created this ship?

The old man cackled unpleasantly. "Heehee, you didn't know that, did you?"

"'Violent birth'? Are you saying the robots – the robots _conquered_ this ship? Stole it from humans?"

The old man laid a long finger slyly aside his nose in the most hackneyed fashion. "That's a blundering bluntness to be speaking in this place, greenhorn."

Involuntarily Piranha glanced around, then came in close to the slave, hissing fiercely, "Where'd you get this from? Were you here back then, did you see it?"

The slave raised moth-eaten grey eyebrows. "Sonny, I'm old but not hardly _that_ old."

"So how do you know?"

The slave took on a distant, mystical smile; and as he spoke, his voice slowed, deepened from a thin, high-pitched creak to a portentous drone. "It is said the robots have much blood on their hands. Legends relate, prophecies foretell, humans made the robots and humans will destroy them. It may be that Anaconda was among the first; yet he may be among the last. And perhaps he claims the robots, yet perhaps he claims the men. But doubtless he damns them both. The gods of the ancient men lie in wait–"

Exasperated, Piranha seized him by the shoulders. "Legends? Predictions? _Anaconda?_ Ah, you're just making stuff up!"

The old man grinned at him unperturbed. Piranha let him go. "Why would I need to invent anything, my lad, when the legends have been handed down from generation to generation of slave and pirate alike?"

"Oh, rusty clanking rotors," Piranha muttered. _"Legends."_ He turned to go.

"Wait, young fella. You haven't kept your side of the deal."

Piranha whirled on him. _"What? _Deal? Oh. Oh yes. But you were supposed to give me..." He paused, then, thoughtfully; his eyes narrowed.

The old man smiled beatifically. "You never know the value of anything you have until you use it," he murmured. "Now take off that glove."

Piranha eyed him, hesitating. Then he pulled off the heavy black glove and held out his hand, palm up. In a guttural voice, he said, "I'll put up with this charade for a few minutes. Make it quick."

The slave snatched the hand with both of his as if capturing a small animal. "A strange hand you've got here. Truncated, without an arm, detached from a body; yet complete and whole in itself. You're a peculiar lad, my boy."

"Compared to a piratical robot or a prognosticating old drunk? I don't think so."

The old man stroked the hand for a moment, turning it a little, examining the shape and surface of it. Piranha scowled. "Don't do that."

"Calm down, calm down, not wise to show your nerves." With a mockingly professional air the slave turned the hand smoothly over and inspected the palm. "Yes, remarkable hand. Very strong. Clean, too – I told you, you're no pirate. But look at all this experience. How'd you manage to collect so much? And bad..." He mused, while Piranha inhaled then exhaled an impatient huff. "Too much bad experience."

"Find one person aboard this ship you couldn't say the exact same thing about," Piranha growled, trying to pull away. The old man clutched the hand harder, grinning like a demon.

"And no life line on it at all."

"I suppose that means I'm dead?"

The old man gave him a lofty look. "Could mean any number of things."

Piranha glowered. "Fortunetellers! Concocting something out of nothing. It would be just as easy for me to take _your_ hand and mumble nonsense about it."

"Aha, but I _do_ it and you don't. There's the difference... See here? You have luck. You're lucky, more than you deserve. Only, is the luck good or bad? And which one do you deserve – the good luck or the bad? Bit worried about that, ain't you?"

Piranha, his eyes blazing, yanked his hand away. The old man snatched it back again. Gleefully, he went on, "Plenty of past here, but no future. Yes, yes, this hand's lost its grip. Whatever it touches turns into the opposite. Now there's a curse for you, one for the legends."

Piranha yanked his hand away again, balling it into a fist. But there was no stopping the old man; he continued, "There _was_ kindness in you once, my lad, it's right there in those clear blue eyes. But now you can't touch anything without killing it, can you? Servitor of the gods of death!"

Of its own accord, Piranha's fist swung back and flashed forward to smash the slave's face; he managed to halt it barely a fingerbreadth away.

The old man didn't flinch. He grinned, showing a lack of teeth, and grabbed hold of Piranha's collar, thrusting his face close to Piranha's. "But don't all pirates worship death? Maybe you are one after all."

Piranha dug his fingers into the skinny hand on his jacket and flung it away from him. He was breathing with some difficulty. "Don't say any more," he said, hoarsely. "I – don't know what I might do."

"No, you don't, do you?" the old man said, his lips drawn back in a grimace more snarl than smile. "You never do know anymore, do you? Once you were truth, flowing clear like pure water. Now you're ice, black ice, impenetrable..."

Piranha backed away a step. There was bitter rage in his face. "You must be a magician. There's no other way you can still be alive, the way you talk. You should have been murdered long ago."

The slave began to advance on him. Piranha's eyes widened. He took another step backwards, then another. The old man was chasing him across the room, step by slow step, talking in a low, vicious hiss, spiteful triumph growing in his face.

"You still think you're playing dress-up? That you'll take off that handsome hat one day and be innocent again? You think you can be the Boss's stooge and still own yourself?"

Piranha snarled like an animal at bay, but didn't answer.

"You think because you hate him he don't own you? The more you hate him the better he likes it. You sold yourself to him, never mind your precious shred of independence, you're _his._ You're _his._"

_"No,_" Piranha gasped,_"No,_ I belong to–" An icy wave washed over him. Pure, frozen terror. He took another step backwards, and bumped up against the wall. He held motionless, staring at his opponent.

"Thought you were being a hero? But what if you were _always_ evil? Just couldn't see it? Still can't see it? The truly evil never can!"

Piranha didn't stir, his back against the wall, his large eyes fixated on the slave.

The old man's pale eyes sparkled vindictively. "What, nothing to say for yourself? All right, I'll say it for you. _You can't do anything now but turn good into evil. _Struggle, howl, or cry, you'll never do anything else. You chose it, you chose the evil side."

Piranha's body sank down a little. He put a hand over his eyes. "I don't want to be evil," he whispered. And felt at last, in a flood of hopelessness that overswept all barricades, how despairingly true that was.

The slave moved in on him, thrusting his own big nose close to Piranha's, weaving back and forth from foot to foot, almost dancing, grinning like an ape. "What? Cheating? Getting away with vileness because your heart is pure? O child of nature! A pure heart, after what you've done! You dream that someday it'll all come out right and your crimes will never have been? No, from now on, everything you touch you'll destroy."

Piranha clapped his hands over his face. Then pulled them away, raging. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like this! What the hell do you know about it?"

The old man paused in his mocking dance. "I'm a slave. I was captured, I lived through all the fine entertainments the pirates can work on a man. You were a fighter, you were captured, and _you_ chose to be a pirate. That says everything."

"No," said Piranha heatedly. "No it doesn't. You don't know anything about me, it's _nothing_ like what you–"

The old man smiled evilly, baring his gap-toothed gums, pointing his skinny finger practically into Piranha's eye.

"Sing, dance, and cry, my boy, what does it change? Sing and dance, dream and lie. You'll still end up where they all end up, swallowed whole by Anaconda, all your wriggling and writhing only to give him a pleasant tickle."

Piranha closed his eyes, clenching his fists. He held still as wave after wave of fury swept over him like fire, snatching away his breath, petrifying his body. Then at last he slumped. He took a shuddering breath.

"Choosing evil? _Choosing_ it? Those who don't have to _act,"_ he gasped, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, "never seem willing not to _talk."_

"What's that, shipmate?"

Piranha straightened up. He shoved the old man aside.

"Wait!" the old man called. "Your prophecy's not done!"

Ignoring him, Piranha strode rapidly towards the door. The old man danced alongside him, sneering. "Oh, come now, don't run out on me! What, scared of a silly old man? Scared of words? Then use those pirate _brains!_ Swords, knives, guns! I'm old, I'm tired, I know too much, I've earned my freedom, I want peace! Do the one good deed of your worthless life, take that flying fist and strike me dead!"

Piranha halted momentarily, turned to snarl at him. Then he leapt away, lurching through the door. As it slid closed, he still heard the old man's cackling voice.

"What's one more little murder, pirate boy? Why can't I get equal treatment around here?"

(End of Part 2)


	24. Quest, Part 3

_I know this whole chapter has been heavy going, and I don't much like it myself, but this is what happens when a story takes too long to write – incidents that started out pretty light and airy gain more and more weight until they become almost immovable. And I don't doubt parts of it are pretty hard to follow. I am pleased, though, that this section isn't as bad as it was a few revisions back. I may revise this again if my mental functions revive sufficiently, but for now, here it is. _

_Rayman © UbiSoft Entertainment, though the guy in my story bears no resemblance to whatever it is they've been doing with the character lately._

* * *

**Chapter 12: Quest, Part 3**

Hurrying through the hall, he was gasping, permeated with a horror he could scarcely comprehend. That crazy old man's ravings... like being dropped down a bottomless hole, and he was still falling.

_"You think because you hate him he don't own you?"_

Tears were gathering behind his eyes, a huge weight of tears, seeping into him from nowhere, threatening to fill and shatter him the way freezing water will explode its glass container.

And he halted, so furious he could hardly see what was in front of him. _Tears._ Yes, a pitiable figure he was, weeping while he tore villages apart.

Being a pirate. The absurdity of it. How could anyone be a pirate? How could anyone take a life of predation for granted? Yet he must spend the rest of his life feeding on the bodies of the innocent, so that his own people would be safe from predators like himself.

How in the name of the world's two blazing hands could he have ended up like this?

_"You chose the evil side._" No. No, _no I did not!_

Then what did you choose?

Beaten in the war to save his planet, desperate to keep from losing everything, he had chosen a different kind of defeat. Now the only battle he could fight was with himself, to hold steady, to endure an intolerable situation, to distract Anaconda from his planet. But he wasn't that strong. He was slipping, even with the deathlike grip of the Guardian always on him, keeping him in line, pressing him against those spinning sawblades.

Anaconda was going to win. Piranha was clinging to a cliff, without a foothold, watching his defeat thunder towards him like an avalanche; and when it came, Anaconda's faint, supercilious smile would be the last thing, as he was swept into the chasm, that he would ever see.

A fierce impulse swept over him, not for the first time – oh, stop _thinking,_ for the love of all the gods just stop thinking and _fight, _short-circuit the whole damned losing game! Finally to let go, to charge through the hall shooting wildly, smashing everything that moved, guilty or innocent, firing and firing and firing until they had no choice but to gun him down – Firing _what?_

A sharp pang went through him. What he'd instinctively thought of firing wasn't a weapon, not bullets or a blast gun. He closed his fists; the tears crept closer.

* * *

He was at a junction where several corridors came together in a star formation. Through all of them, sporadic foot traffic passed, an oversized freak show: huge, clumsy-jointed metal robots, clicking and clunking and faintly wheezing with internal machinery; the lumbering chunks of raw steak that were the human pirates, in their absurd metal-trimmed getups, swinging those hands the size of babies at the end of redundant, bulging arms. All that massive meat, all those clanking metal parts, all that superfluous solidity, with no purpose but to smash and crush and ruin the lives of inoffensive beings.

Him too... Once a creature of energy, a being more akin to air and light than to metal and flesh, he was now as dark and as solid, as heavy and as mechanical as they were. He could feel his body congealing, thickening, coarsening–

And abruptly, the perspective of the hallway altered, as if he were suddenly seeing through the wrong end of a telescope. For a startled moment, he stared up at lumbering mountains. He was tiny, shrinking, a mote, an insect, about to be crushed–

He shook his head furiously, shaking the mad vision out of it. But he was panting now, his chest a tight knot, he couldn't get air. His black eyes dilated.

He forced in a breath, and took a step backwards, his fists clutched against his chest. What was going on? What was the matter with him?

Then he grasped what it was. Panic.

He darted glances to the left, the right. He planted his feet hard, fiercely in place. He –

No, he couldn't. No more. He fled.

* * *

He was crouching behind a wall of crates, the big wooden barrels and boxes that were piled in haphazard stacks along many of the ship's corridors. He held still, his eyes half-shut, taking long, slow breaths.

On the other side of the boxes he could hear the traffic in the hall, the loathed clumping of metallic feet and the gruff human voices. He huddled into the little space behind the boxes as though it were a tiny universe of its own, out of reach of the toxic world of Anaconda and the Guardian, of enemy and friend, love and hate, of the straitjacket of duty whether forced on him or self-imposed.

Once again, the vast forests of his home surrounded him. Eyes, faces, peeked out at him between the leaves. So many different faces, all familiar, all radiant, smiling at him with playful affection, with friendship, with love. His eyes burned. Friendship with Piranha, the idea was obscene. But they reached for him, those hands, those faces, those eyes; some were dead, he knew that, but they smiled at him as though he weren't to blame. He shrank back, he melted into the bushes, he dissolved; his disembodied gaze still clinging to those faces, yearning uselessly out of a black vacuum.

Nearby, a harsh sound, a scrabbling. The forest collapsed. Something was squeezing in between the boxes. He lurched to his feet, ready to fight.

And staggered back. A blinding light flared in the dark space, there was the hiss of heavy electric discharge. The Guardian stepped out from behind the boxes, a sizzling, lethal ball of golden energy in his white-gloved hand, rage and hatred filling his clear eyes like smoke, as a forest fire blackens a cloudless sky.

_"You think you can **quit?**"_ he roared; and raised that fist.

Piranha's hands flew up to block his face, he cowered back against the wooden crates, bracing for the blow.

Silence. Slowly he lowered his hands.

In the dim light, a grey outline, bent and frail. The old slave.

Piranha stared at him.

The slave strode forward, pushing his papery-skinned face close to Piranha's nose, looking mockingly into Piranha's black eyes.

"Get away from me," Piranha whispered.

"You didn't let me finish before. You should never interrupt a prophecy."

Convulsively, Piranha seized him by the trunk, picked him up bodily and heaved him aside, then lunged towards the exit. The old man smacked up against the boxes and fell to the floor. He coughed, chuckled; then began to talk. At the sound of his voice Piranha froze. He stood still facing the exit, not looking back at the slave.

"Kid ... You make me laugh. You're the most evil thing I've ever seen on this ship. Never met anybody truly evil but you. You nitwit! The dumbest pirate _knows_ he's innocent – blames his boss, his fate, his victim, anything! The Boss himself never doubts that every whim he has is _right._ But you, no! You _can't_ think that way, can you? Pitiful liar, can't you manage to delude even yourself? How you gonna blame anybody else for your crimes?"

A puzzled frown crept into Piranha's face. His eyes flicked back towards the old man, then he turned resolutely away.

"Scared, you damned fool? More scared of the bad in you, or the good? Let me tell you, boy, you'll go on being a liar and a fraud and a cheat till you decide to take things into your own hands. Maybe you'll get that through your head one of these days."

Now Piranha turned to look at him. "No," he growled hoarsely. "It already happened. I made a decision, long ago. Right or wrong, everything that's happened since then flows out of that moment – everything that's happened, everything that will happen. Nothing can be done about it now."

Bone by bone, the old man was pushing himself arthritically up into a sitting position. He gave a soft, sarcastic laugh. "Tragic! Victim of your own decision? Pah! Who isn't? And ain't we all victims of that very first decision, that set this whole ship going? All victims, all slaves, all criminals. But, my fine gentleman pirate, not one boss on this ship since the very first, has ever managed to be such a _hypocrite."_

Piranha stood motionless by the exit. The old slave abruptly sat up straight, baring his few teeth in a demented leer. "Yes! That's it! _That's_ who you are, lost hero. Like the first, who started it all! Too good, oh, far too good to be a pirate – but not too good to send pirates off to die for you in battle. Hate to look at slaves, don't ya? But you'll profit from the capture and sale of them! Hah, victim of your own decision! Didn't decide so badly for yourself after all, did you!"

Piranha blinked, stunned by the utter unfairness of such a statement.

The slave continued, grinning vindictively. "As you repeat the sins of the first, so will you meet the fate! Yes, of course!" He paused. His hateful grin melted down into a complacent little smile, and he sighed. "The prophecy is complete."

Piranha eyed him in silence.

Silent himself at last, the old man met his gaze. Piranha felt a shock – such intransigent, even crazed certainty in those yellowed eyes. Then the slave curled up against the wall, turning his face pointedly away. Piranha was dismissed.

Squeezing out from behind the pile of crates, Piranha stood in the corridor, a trifle shaky. He looked back at the pile. No sound, no sign of the old man. For a few moments, Piranha didn't stir, his gaze travelling absently around the corridor.

Then he shook himself out of his trance. Abruptly he lunged down the hall and slammed through the door to the stairway.

* * *

"Watch out, Bubo – guess who's paying us a visit?" The pirate nudged Bubo, who turned to look down the corridor. Yes, there he was, the First Mate, the plumes of his black hat swept back by the speed of his walk, the hat itself concealing most of his face. But though his expression wasn't visible, the rapid, forward-bent ferocity of his walk didn't augur well for the conversation about to take place.

Bubo sighed. It was almost lunch time, too. He turned toward Piranha and waited for the glare that would take hold of him any moment now.

However, Piranha strode up to the three pirates on guard at the entrance to the old section without looking any one of them in the eye. Without a word, not slowing his pace, he took hold of Bubo's loose shirt sleeve and continued walking. Confusedly the big pirate followed him.

Piranha dragged him through the corridor into the old section, unlocked the door of an empty cabin and pulled him inside. He practically shoved Bubo into a chair by the table and hopped onto the other one himself. Then for the first time he pushed his hat back and looked straight into Bubo's face.

"Who made this ship?" Piranha demanded.

Bubo gaped at him. _"What?"_

Piranha stared back with eyes black and unfathomable as space itself. "You know anything about the history of this ship, Bubo?"

"The _history? _You mean... uh–"

"How it got started? What kind of beings started it? Men or robots?"

Bubo straightened uneasily in his chair. "Eh... nobody really knows anything about that... just a lot of wild tales..."

Piranha shot him a sharp look. "You do know, then."

Bubo winced. "No. Just rumors. The officers... the robots... they don't like it being talked about. And you know pirates, they can't tell a story without fancying it up so much its own mother wouldn't recognize it."

Piranha didn't seem to have heard. "Bubo. Who started it all? Did this ship once belong to humans? Did robot pirates steal it from them? Or were the humans pirates themselves? Did they make the robots? Look, I'm not trying to trap you or get you into trouble. I'm just trying to understand what –" He paused. "What I've been told."

The pirate shifted again in his chair. "Piranha, the ship breeds rumors like rats, and they scatter into cracks and disappear like bugs. Who knows what's true? Me, I think this was always a robot ship. You look at the way whole sections are built, they probably weren't even airtight at one time. But nothing stops the stories. You hear things like – this ship used to be a travelling city, not a pirate vessel. Maybe a city of robots, maybe of men. Some say humans did create the robots. Or at least they created Anaconda. You hear that Anaconda was the first robot and he made the others. Or he was the _last _robot the humans made, and he enslaved the humans that made him. They say he had human slaves build this ship and he's been collecting slaves ever since. They say he lives on slaves, he eats their energy. Gets energy from torturing them."

Piranha was regarding him with those opaque eyes, showing no response. Bubo looked back at him with a touch of defiance. "That's what they say. They also say that Anaconda can blast apart walls just by glaring at them, and he can melt down a robot or set a human on fire with the twitch of a finger. Pirates believe anything – and the exact opposite ten minutes later. You know, I talked to a servo-robot one time who fixes the robots when they're broken, and he whispered to me – Anaconda ain't got no special powers at all. Not even the built-in weapons some of the robots have. He's armoured, he's smart, he's strong, but that's it. You think anybody will buy that?"

"I want to know what _you_ think, Bubo. How would robots become pirates?"

"Ah, who knows? Who cares? It makes me laugh – Some stupid robot officer yells at some dumb human pirate, and you'll hear men muttering for days how there couldn't even _be_ any of these ungrateful robots if it wasn't for _us. _Yeah, right, if it wasn't for us mighty men. I dunno, I never met a man who'd know how to patch together something like Anaconda, or even a bartender. And more important... who owns who around here?"

Piranha was gazing at the floor now, absently. "The robots don't like the past being talked about."

"Men have been beaten for doing that. Sometimes beaten to death. For stirring up mutiny. Even though they don't know what they're talking about."

Piranha looked at him vaguely, his thoughts obviously somewhere else.

"Piranha," Bubo added, "What I'm trying to tell you is not to trust what you hear. Did you know that _you_ can blast apart a robot just by looking at him?"

Piranha raised an eyebrow.

"And you can pick up a guy like me and throw him through a metal bulkhead like it's made of glass. The pirates are pretty impressed with you, you know." He grinned apologetically at Piranha's grimace of disgust.

Piranha jumped to his feet and paced quickly about the room for a few moments. Then he halted, and his eyes turned with sudden, startling intensity to look at the pirate. "Bubo. You ever see an old slave, calls himself the pirate soothsayer?"

Bubo gave a gasp of comprehension. Then he chuckled, relaxing back into his chair. "Oh, _him._ You've been talking to that crackpot! Hell's airlocks, Piranha, he's loopy, around the bend, long gone! He'll go babbling on about evil pirates all day if you let him."

"Why _does_ anybody let him? Why's he allowed to run loose?"

Bubo shrugged. "Ah, he's harmless enough, and lots of the pirates think he's good for a laugh. He's been on the ship a long, long time – probably does know a thing or two, the old lunatic. But don't listen to him, he'll have you tied up in knots if you do."

Unexpectedly, Piranha's lips curled back in a bitter grin. "Knots? More like, he'll complete the unravelling," he said, and darted out of the room.

Bubo stared after him in perplexity.

* * *

Bursting from the elevator onto the mess hall floor at the height of mealtime, chaotic with crowds of pirates coming and going from the eating rooms, and slaves frantically rushing about with huge multi-tiered carts laden with food, Piranha ambushed the first slave that crossed his path – a pale, angular, middle-aged male human. The slave went even more pale as the first mate seized him by the arm, but let go of the cart he was pushing and followed passively as Piranha towed him firmly down the hall and through the door into the stairway that few but Piranha himself ever used.

Piranha halted, standing a couple of steps above the slave so that they were at eye level. The man was glancing around the dimly lit stairwell, shivering a little, his dark eyes wide.

"What's your name?"

"D-Dalala."

"Do you know that old slave who says he's the pirate soothsayer?"

Startled, Dalala stopped shivering. "What, Old _Fungus?"_

"Tell me about him."

"There–there's not much to tell, sir. He's been on the ship practically forever. They can't sell him, he's too old and crazy. He's a trustie, has the run of the ship. He doesn't work anymore, lives on little bits of food from slaves that do work. He talks a lot. That's all I know."

"Does he tell the truth?"

The slave shifted uneasily. "I – I have no idea, sir. But some say he got the gift of prophecy from too much–" Abruptly he stopped talking.

"Go on," Piranha growled.

Dalala whispered reluctantly, "From – from too much torture, sir. With the training prod, sir."

"Training prod?"

"The – the electric stick, sir. You know, what they train slaves with."

Piranha looked at him, wrinkling his forehead. The slave added hastily, "Not blaming the pirates, First Mate, sir. He might have been trained by another slave. Most likely."

Piranha let go of Dalala's arm. "Okay," he said, quietly. "Go back to work."

But before the slave could take a step, Piranha snatched his arm again. "Wait. Do you know about the robots? How they turned pirate?"

The slave turned wide eyes on him. "What?"

"How they got this ship? Did they take it over from humans?"

"T-take over? N-no, no, it's not true."

"What's not true?"

"The-the old stories, crazy old stories – the robots didn't overthrow their masters. The robots have always been the masters."

"Overthrow? _Human_ masters?"

The slave twitched nervously, sweat breaking out on his face. Piranha gripped his arm. "Who were the first pirates? Robots, or humans? How'd it all start? And _why?_"

The slave opened his mouth helplessly. He couldn't unlock his gaze from Piranha's, only looked at him piteously and said nothing.

Irritably, Piranha released him at last and gestured at him to leave. Without a word, Dalala hurried up the stairs and back into the corridor.

Piranha pressed his fists over his eyes. Out of the sickening swirl of confusion whirling round him, something was about to explode.

* * *

Striding through the corridor, he felt it all scorch through him like electricity – hatred, savagery, everything he'd ever seen on a pirate's face – greed, avid cruelty – he could feel it descend on him palpably like another spirit, another body taking possession of his, a tall black metal body – and it pulsated through him, he could maim, kill, he could thrust in a knife and twist it, he could burn, loot, pillage, he could tear a baby apart, he could fasten a captive's body to the device he knew so well, he could use the girl the way Anaconda had intended — Everything that had ever been done to him or his, anything he'd ever seen done by anyone around him, no matter how he'd resisted it at the time, anything that had ever paralyzed him with horror – with ferocity he could seize it and thrust it away from himself, with fierce satisfaction he could use it to impale, avenge, punish –

And he fetched up against a wall. He held still there, pressing himself sideways against the metal bulkhead.

Yes, violence, a simple act of desperation. Like he'd tried a while ago in the bar. Very simple, to take the torment inflicted on you and thrust it onto somebody else. Quick, easy, and after a bit, sickening. Then to relieve the sickness, do it again, and go on doing it over and over again, while you spun into an ever-descending spiral, an addiction, an accumulating madness. Was that how you became a pirate, a true pirate?

Surely he'd have become one himself long ago if not for that faint tether binding him back to his home planet, forcing him to continue to _be_ the pirates' victims in the same moment that he was arranging their victimization.

Didn't he have a right to go mad? Maybe he already had, maybe he already _was_ crazy.

He was the most evil thing on the ship, after all. The old man had said. He was evil because he _knew_ he was evil? Like the _first? _The first? Anaconda? Is that what he meant? Did anything that old savage said mean anything at all?

That old slave, that self-righteous fraud, no better than Piranha himself – shunting _his_ misery onto others with violent words.

Though ... what he was doing was perhaps a little more crafty. Attacking with mockery. Mocking the tormentors, mocking the torment itself. Not quite as self-righteous as thrusting a knife through somebody. You have to take yourself pretty damn seriously to do that.

Piranha turned his back to the wall, leaning against it, and looked at the passersby. What could be more alien to him than these creatures, human or robot? An amorphous enemy, like some mythical being with thousands of faceless heads. The personal struggle he contended with hour by hour had nothing to do with their world, their preoccupations, their ambitions. It was a dramatic world that surrounded him, however. Anaconda, Hacker, Blargh when he was alive, Bubo, all the rest, all caught up in one deadly game or another, some life-or-death struggle, each one with his chosen enemies, each one with his strategy, each one fiercely determined to do others in, come out on top, squelch somebody, get the most of something, or just avoid being killed... Even the slaves were in the fray, like Elly, who hardly even knew how to smile, she was so oppressed by sheer desperation to survive. Utter struggle, utter seriousness.

Oh, but of course he was caught up in it. Hadn't – _Rayman_ made a deal? Bent on preserving his planet, wasn't that the deal he had made? To be willing to pay any price; and to make anyone _else_, any innocent from any planet, pay any price? Could it get any more serious?

That old slave in his long life had been through it all, and had stepped aside from it, to mock it. ... And Piranha knew, his body knew to the core, the kind of thing he had stepped aside from. He knew how much power the mere sight of an instrument of torture could finally take on in one's eyes, in one's nerves. He knew what degradation the waiting, waiting for the next moment could finally bring you to. He knew how it was to have your soul torn out, to be left empty, and ... afterwards, to have to fill in the gaping space. What you stuffed in there, haphazardly, was never going to be as clean and tidy as what was there before. And you would never be sure, in the end, whether you'd been praying to the gods or cursing all the demons of hell... or whether you'd ever again believe there was any difference between them.

Piranha closed his eyes. Anaconda _had_ won. He'd won not only the battle to take Rayman's planet, but the war. He'd been waging a war to crush Rayman, to defeat him completely, and he'd _won._ That was his victory: finally to cause Rayman to lose not a fight, but himself – to take all the spirit, the lightness, the joy of life, even the joy of battle out of him, and drag him down to Anaconda's own detached, disconnected, lifeless mechanical level. Which would be – Piranha. Could Rayman ever have imagined being so deadly serious, so – well, dead?

And there was Anaconda, still striving to crush Piranha's spirit, to humiliate him into obedience, to stifle every last twitch of independence. As if Piranha himself wasn't busily engaged, day by day, minute by minute, breath by breath, in suppressing himself into something more robotic than the robots. Dreading every moment of consciousness, fleeing every thought, fighting off every memory, every emotion. What could Anaconda possibly could do to him to equal that?

Piranha stood still, his hands pressed behind him against the wall, looking out into the corridor but seeing nothing. He was scarcely breathing.

Then, suddenly, he fell back, black-gloved hands shielding his eyes, and began to laugh. It wasn't pleasant laughter, it was choked and difficult, verging on tears; but, oblivious to the startled glances of the passing crew, he leaned against the wall, hiding his face, and laughed painfully, helplessly, for a long time.

At last the laughter slowed, stopped. He held motionless for a while, hands still covering his face, still on the edge of tears. Then he straightened up and looked around.

He wiped his face. There was an odd light in his eyes.

All right. He was Piranha: a slave, though of slightly higher caste, to the conqueror of his people. He still didn't see any other possibility. But – for the first time since he had been captured on his planet, perhaps even before that – he felt within himself the stirring of a little hope. It was a terrible thing, broken and painful, far more painful than despair, and he was more than halfway resisting it himself. But it was alive.

He took a long breath. He wasn't Rayman, thank the gods. It was unbearable to think of Rayman, the Guardian, defiled and compromised by a thousand ugly, evil, unavoidable actions. All that was good enough for Piranha, created to survive in hell – there was nothing pure or noble or heroic about _him._

_But_ – he was nobody's puppet. If he was going to live in hell, he was damned if he'd consent to be absorbed by it. And he was damned, damned, _damned_ if he'd go on having to be forced into action, weeping and whining, by the dead ghost of an idealized, impossibly spotless hero who could have no feeling for the likes of him anyway but contempt.

There were things he did care about. He would take his own actions, for his own reasons, and he would face up to the consequences himself.

And it dawned on him that the war wasn't over yet, after all. No, the battle was still going on. Wasn't Anaconda still trying to crush him? _He_ didn't think he'd won. Piranha's dark eyes brightened a little, he flexed his fists.

He couldn't fight his enemy directly. He must follow implicitly all the rules he'd agreed to. But that didn't mean he was _defeated._ He was still alive, wasn't he? He took another deep breath, and almost staggered with the sudden flood of relief that swept over him.

He leaned back against the wall, tears in his eyes. Tears of relief. It was true. He didn't have to be forced into anything. Not by Anaconda, not by the Guardian either. He was in a situation that couldn't be anything but painful, but – no, he would never be anyone's slave. He belonged to himself.

The tears overflowed for a moment. Rayman was dead, safely dead, uncorrupted, free. He could rest, he wasn't needed. He could rest. Piranha wiped his eyes.

He straightened up, looking around. He felt very odd – as though he'd just arrived, been dumped here unceremoniously from some other existence. Though he couldn't see why he should feel that way. Nothing had really changed.

Yes, something had changed. He had ceased to be a pawn. He was about to become once more a player.

Darkly, he smiled.


	25. Quest, Part 4

_Not much to say about this segment except that the next one will probably take a while. I guess that isn't saying anything about this segment after all. Oh well._

**_Notes just in case: _**

_Hornpipe: A traditional lively solo dance popular with sailors, or the music that goes with it. (Think Popeye.)_

_Scrimshaw: Intricate decorative carving done by sailors (traditionally on items made of whalebone)._

_Seven feet tall is about 2.13 m. _

_Rayman/__Piranha © UbiSoft Entertainment. Everybody else in this chapter belongs to me._

_> > > > > >_

**Chapter 12: Quest, Part 4**

Strolling cautiously through the corridors, his glance darting, fixing on things, darting away, eyeing the passing pirates as they uneasily eyed him, Piranha was feeling peculiar.

After all the months he'd spent on this ship, buried in his own anguish, suddenly the place had emerged from darkness, he could _see _it. It wasn't anything wonderful to look at, but it had an enormous fascination because it was _real._ Every shade of light and shadow, every texture and every shape, had abruptly become surrealistically sharp and clear. As though he'd always had one eye covered and had been seeing things in two dimensions – and now, opening his other eye, he saw in three. Something like that.

The men, the robots, a – he started back in surprise – a gigantic red-headed woman (dressed like a pirate in head-scarf, hoop earrings, loose shirt, ragged pants, bare feet) stalked by, throwing down at him a contemptuous glance ... He'd never seen any of it before. Though at the same time, he knew it all, every scratch on the walls, each bend of every corridor. Everything except that woman, anyway.

He'd spent so much of his time here drowning in horror, resentment, fury, despair, in hatred. Surrounded by a loathsome mass, the enemy, the pirates – they were the cause of his captivity, and were themselves the prison he was condemned to labour in for the rest of his life. They were a presence, a miasma, they pressed in on him, invaded him like radioactive particles, they made the air unbreathable and confused his sense of direction.

Now, passing him, some snarled under their breath, they averted their eyes, they edged away from him as though afraid of contamination. He had to smile. All this time that he'd been writhing under the unbearable weight of oppression of _the enemy_. The enemy. These ragtag men in absurd clothing and dented, rusty old robots – nervous of a little guy with big eyes under an enormous hat.

This sea of faces that at one time had cheered for him, had been eager to have him as a leader. Piranha's eyes widened. He'd forgotten about that. It wasn't a pleasant thought. Though he demanded their obedience, he didn't want their approval; he certainly didn't want their loyalty or friendship. They had scarred his planet, destroyed his life ... and now his days revolved around _babysitting_ them, this asylum of depraved, witless children.

He sighed. An unfortunate thought. It wasn't in him to hate a child, no matter how depraved. He'd spent too much of – that dream, his other life ... protecting, playing with, even teaching children, giving them his knowledge of the woods, of fighting, of games, of music...

He sighed again. He turned around and headed for the bar; not the officers' bar, but one he'd never gone into – the big, noisy, run-down saloon where the regular crewmen went. Maybe the children could teach him something. It wouldn't be the first time.

> > > > >

Given that it was afternoon, the bar was nearly empty, only about fifteen men and a couple of robots scattered across its many metal benches.

Just inside the door he paused, looking around the room. The scruffy officer's bar was a model of elegance in comparison to this place, with its bare, heavily scratched and dented metal walls and solid metal furnishings. Like a madhouse, it was designed for ease of cleaning and prevention of damage, with comfort and aesthetics being pretty much left out of the picture. All the tables and benches were cast in heavy, shapeless chunks and welded to the floor, and though the dented brass cups the pirates took sluggish swallows from might have been solid enough to smash skulls, no amount of brawling was likely to result in any serious damage to _them._

Judging by the metallic clunking and screeching sounds it made when it moved, even the grey cylindrical bartender robot was anchored down as firmly as the rest of the furniture, scraping around behind the bar on a track. It was one of those multilimbed, non-humanoid robots that left Piranha puzzled, unsure if they were independent, self-willed beings like the robot pirates, or just sophisticated machines. This one was using only a few of its extendible, snaky limbs to serve drinks, clean cups, put them away, wipe the bar; built like some multiple-armed god, it was well equipped to cope with any number of demanding drinkers.

At the entrance of the first mate into the crewmen's bar, the occupants turned towards him. Then looked quickly away, occupying themselves with their drinks. Officers rarely entered this bar, and when they did it wasn't for fun.

Hesitantly, Piranha moved forward. Had he really thought he would discover anything here? He gazed around, looking at the crew, the room; then, finding himself standing next to the main sit-down bar, he climbed up onto the flat-topped metal block that served as a stool. Next to him, as solid and rectangular as if part of the bar himself, sat a bulky bronze robot pirate – a medium-sized one, maybe seven feet tall.

Sitting on the stool, Piranha could only just see over the edge of the bar. The bartender rolled up and braked in front of him with a metallic squeal.

"Honoured, First Mate, that you come to my bar."

Piranha nodded.

Hesitantly, the robot added, "I, er, hope you aren't spoiling for a fight, First Mate, sir. It's not right for the likes of the crew to be tangling with officers, like equals. And denting up bars."

Piranha smiled slightly. "No. I didn't come here to fight."

The grey robot gave a soft hydraulic wheeze that sounded like relief. "Well then, sir, what will you have?"

"Whatever everybody else has."

The bartender selected a bottle, poured a generous sample into a cup, and set it in front of Piranha.

"Our best, sir. On the house."

Piranha nodded dismissively and the bartender slid away.

> > >

There had been many times in his life – that former life ... when he had done things impulsively, by instinct, having no idea why he did them. They usually turned out to be things he wouldn't have done if he'd thought it over, and they usually turned out to have been the best action possible at that moment.

But he no longer trusted his impulses. Still, here he was. Why fight it?

The pirate next to him sat placidly drinking. Piranha played absently with his own drink, swirling it around, watching the little waves settle out of it. At length he turned to the robot.

"What's your name, pirate?"

The robot answered laconically, not troubling to look at him. "Jaykatoo."

Piranha peered into his cup some more. He said, "Since you're here, I take it you're not an officer?"

There was a lengthy silence. At last the robot replied, grudgingly, "Naaah."

"Funny," said Piranha, mildly. "I don't see many robots who aren't."

"Ehh... Never saw no point in being an officer. Who needs that aggravation."

"So you managed to become a regular crewman instead? How'd you get away with that?"

The robot turned towards him for the first time, staring down at him with large circular eyes like thick, rippled glass. "Hah, when they started taking on humans, they _tried _to kick me upstairs. But why should I give up an easy life to start slave-driving stupid jelly bags? They can get themselves killed off without my help."

"Oh, that's right," said Piranha, blandly. "Once upon a time all of the pirates were robots."

"Ehhh," the robot grunted. He took up his drink again.

Piranha took a gingerly sip of his own. "But were all of the robots pirates?" he added, vaguely.

The robot clanked on the bar with his cup and held it out for more drink. The bartender screeched over, refilled it, and at Piranha's pointed stare quickly retreated again. After a swig, Jaykatoo glanced again at Piranha. "Were we always pirates? What a question! Of course all robots are pirates!"

Piranha was silent for a moment. Then said, "Why?"

The bronze robot's cup halted halfway to his face. "Huh?"

"Why are you pirates?"

The robot gestured with his cup. "What, are you nuts? We're bad guys! We're evil!"

Piranha smiled sardonically. "Oh yes. The evil thing."

The robot finished his swig, gave an electronic belch. "Yup."

Piranha added, "How do you know?"

"What?"

"How do you know you're evil? How can you tell?"

There was a pause. Then the robot said, "No disrespect, First Mate, but you're an idiot. How can we _tell?_ It's _orders!"_

"Orders? From who?"

The robot gestured vaguely. "Long time ago."

"You mean that's all there is to it? Somebody tells you to be evil and you just are? You really _believe_ you are?"

The robot glanced at him, dubiously. "What do you mean?"

"What if you didn't believe it? Would you still be evil?"

The robot swivelled to stare hard at him. "No disrespect, First Mate, but just what kind of crap are you trying to stir up here?"

Once again Piranha looked at him in silence. Then he said, "Do you like it?"

"Like _what?"_

"Being a bad guy."

The robot stared at him for a moment longer, then shrugged and turned back to his drink. "Like it? It's programming. It's what you do, you know, kill, destroy, steal, all that stuff, it's just what you do."

Piranha retreated to his own cup, looked into it. "What if you were reprogrammed to do something else?" he said.

"Can't be reprogrammed. Hard-wired. Built in."

Piranha was silent again. After a pause, however, the robot spoke up, irritably. "Anyway... what else _is_ there?"

"Eh?"

"Besides, you know, evil."

"Besides _evil?"_

"Yeah! What the hell else is there?"

"Oh. Well... What the good guys do."

"What they do? What _do_ they do?"

Piranha laughed suddenly. "Um ... You know, good question. What do they do? _Not_ killing, _not_ destroying, _not_ stealing?"

The robot clanked derisively. "Yeah, yeah. What I want to know is, what do they _do?"_

"Oh... well ... other things. Like music, love, art. Or growing food. Or – business. Yeah, commerce, they do that."

The robot smacked his cup onto the table. "Bah! We do all that too. Music, huh! You should see Bent Bart do the hornpipe! And if you ever want a real experience, come around sometime when about a hundred of us robots are stomp-dancing on the deck all together. You'll never be the same. And art? I can carve you a mean knife handle – Look here, look at this. Is that good or what? That's why they call me Scrimshaw Jake!"

"Nice work, very nice."

"Food? Robots don't need food. Love – phoo, that's for humans. Ask them about it, they'll talk your ears off. But commerce – hah, there wouldn't _be_ any commerce without us pirates. Who else spreads the goods around? And nobody's better at business than we are! You ever met a good guy who was richer than Anaconda?"

"No," Piranha acknowledged, "No, I've never met a good guy richer than Anaconda. Maybe a richer pirate somewhere along the line."

"What?" snorted the robot. "Huh, if there's one out there, he better watch it. We'll show _him._ – So you still ain't told me, what do the good guys do? Far as I can tell, they don't do anything."

Piranha was smiling uncomfortably. "It's – I guess it's hard to explain."

"Why? _You're_ a good guy, ain't you? You know all about it!"

"Me? No, I never knew much to begin with, and now I know nothing at all."

"Huh," the robot said. "Must have been a fine mess they made of the reprogramming, if you lost all your memory."

Piranha smiled again, ruefully. "You're right," he said. "The reprogramming was a mess."

There was a long silence, as the robot remained motionless, and Piranha quietly gazed into his cup. Then, abruptly, the robot creaked, and said, "You killed Blargh. You got made first mate."

Piranha glanced at him warily.

"We never had a human first mate before. And sure as hell we never had a good guy as first mate before."

Piranha raised his eyebrows a little. "Yeah... So?"

The robot took a gulp of his drink and shrugged. "So now you're the one who has to give the Boss bad news. Well, better you than me, pal."

"Fact is," Piranha muttered, "I'm not quite sure how I ended up with this job."

The robot said, "Eh, no matter. Who cares? Just so it ain't me."

Piranha gave him a dry, amused glance. "Too smart to get yourself in a fix like that."

"You said it, First Mate. I've made it this far, and I plan to be around for a long time to come. Guys too close to power short out fast."

"You've made it this far? Been around a long time already, eh?"

Jaykatoo's flat round bottle-glass eyes aimed directly at him for a moment. "Long time? Long for you maybe. Humans, pah, they just flick on and off, there's nothing to them."

"Humans? True." There was another contemplative silence.

At last, his eyes still focused on the liquid in his cup, Piranha spoke up softly. "Jake, I can see you've got things figured out. Maybe you could clear something up for me."

Jaykatoo hunched his bulky body around a bit to face more towards Piranha. "Maybe I will," he said. "You're the first officer who ever had the sense to ask me anything."

Piranha paused, a slight grimace on his face. "What's evil, really? I mean – what makes you call me a good guy and yourself a bad guy?" He glanced at the robot then averted his eyes. "I've done plenty of things at least as bad as you have."

The robot made a series of intermittent whirring sounds that after a moment Piranha realized must be laughter. "Scrambled circuits! First Mate, you're too much. Can't you see you _think_ like a good guy?"

"I do?"

The robot laughed again. "It ain't your fault, is it? Hard wired, I bet. You can't help it."

Piranha sat up straight, nettled. "You saying I'm not pirate enough for you?"

"Take it how you want."

"Most of the crew's scared to death of me! And you don't think I'm evil?"

The robot laughed again, meeting Piranha's fierce, faintly anxious glare. "Oh, you're all right, First Mate. For a human and a good guy, you're doing okay as a pirate. Hey, maybe we should get good guys for officers more often. It improves the pay."

Piranha eyed him for another moment, then subsided. Jaykatoo turned back to face the bar again.

After a moment, Piranha sighed. Restlessly he picked up his drink.

Jaykatoo happened to lift his at the same time. They glanced at each other.

Piranha gave a wry grin. He raised his cup towards the robot in a sort of toast. "Your health, Jake," he said.

The robot looked at him blankly. "My what?"

Piranha grinned more. "Never mind," he said. He sniffed at the cup, decided against actually drinking any, and put it down. Still with a small, slightly bent smile on his face.

> > > > > >

Piranha walked out into the dingy, scuffed metal corridors, looking up and down the halls in bemusement.

As his gaze lighted on the hard, battered pirate faces, both robot and human, it was odd not to feel the usual flush of hatred and despair. Even seeing a couple of laser-bearing metal behemoths of the kind that had caused so much havoc on his own planet didn't rouse much more than a faint seethe. The bottle-glass-eyed, faintly comical face of Scrimshaw Jake kept rising before him, somehow breaking the force of his hate.

Meditatively he walked forward, looking around at the walls, the decks, the doors, the lamps, the passing fellow inhabitants of this city-sized metal beehive. Now that he was beginning to look at it, to think about it, it seemed more and more unaccountable. Who would build such a place? Why? Where had it come from? Where had Anaconda come from? The catastrophe of robot pirates erupting onto his home planet hadn't left much leisure for questions, and since coming here he had fiercely rejected even wondering about them. They existed, they had absorbed him, that was enough.

> > >

Suddenly he halted. Absorbed him? No, something truly had changed. He could feel it strongly now. Nothing was going to make this place cheerful for him; but that deadly paralysis, that sense of entanglement, as of being bug caught in a web, held fast, slowly smothering, waiting to be sucked dry... His eyes widened, he took a small step forward.

And inhaled, sharply. He could _move_ again.

> > > > > >

With a burst of energy, he surged forward. Automatically his eyes sought out shadows, gaps, places of concealment. Places where enemies might lurk, places he himself might dodge into – though as First Mate, of course, it was his role to stride down the center of the deck, meeting all eyes with arrogance. To be, among other things, an open target. Fortunately, an enormous, clumsy, vengeful white robot couldn't very successfully skulk in dark corners... though he surely had supporters who could.

Absently his hand reached for the hidden weapons he carried, touching the hilts of knives, the butt of the energy gun Anaconda had given him – eons ago. When had he last checked it for charge?

He halted once more, abruptly alert. He peered down at the gun, still concealed under his vest. Half-charged. Not recharged in weeks or months, it had been slowly losing power.

He had gotten careless. Careless, indeed... no longer caring. Perhaps, silently, he had decided to leave things more and more to chance... Or to Hacker.

Well, that was finished. That was very finished, right now. Unconsciously Piranha's body took on a springlike tension, a taut, wound grace that had been missing for a while; his gaze, so long dark and inward, swept in his surroundings with one bright, black glance.

> > >

In fact, he hadn't seen Hacker in some time. In particular, since the ship's slave and booty holds had been filled and no more forays were being made outside the ship, the Second Mate had become almost invisible. That wasn't surprising; the gigantic robot was on the outs with Anaconda, a highly dangerous situation for anyone. No doubt that was the only thing keeping him from showing more ambition in dealing with an upstart First Mate. Nevertheless, it would be like Hacker to have dozens of unobtrusive underlings acting as his numerous eyes, and, sooner or later, as his striking hand as well. Hacker wasn't terribly bright, but he knew the right moves for being a pirate.

That life-and-death game that obsessed everyone on the ship. Well, he himself had always loved games.

Slowly, Piranha drew out a dagger. He fingered its intricately embossed leather handle, ran a thumb down its elegantly curved, glinting blade. He grinned wryly. Someone had lavished such love on beautifying this thing meant to tear a living man's guts out.

He was in a benevolent mood. He should really go see how poor old Hacker was getting along.

Once more, he looked around. Then, with the suddenness of a pouncing kitten, a gleam of utter mischief splashed across his face. Shoving the dagger back into place, he took off like a bullet.

> > > > > >

A bullet, not a guided missile. He was having a little trouble taking things with proper seriousness. His hunt for Hacker led him into the ship's huge kitchens, through public bathrooms (the last place to expect to find a robot), clattering up and down stairs, then up a few more flights just because he liked the sound of his boots; into an elevator, where for no reason at all his dark eyes took hold of a stray slave and froze her to the wall with an impenetrable stare, until the moment when the lift stopped and the poor girl burst through the door and fled. He rode on up to the top level, where the engine room was, came out and sauntered around with an intent, observant air, and yet aimlessly – until the guards began shifting their feet and clutching their guns in uncertain dismay, wondering if this was some sort of inspection, or whether the First Mate intended to go in to look at the engines, or not, or what. Then without a word he slid back into the elevator. Upon exiting on another floor, he found his way into the network of secret "technological" passages he'd long ago charted out, trotted through some of those at random, shinned his way down several levels via the air ducts, and emerged at last, slapping off dust, on the sixth level, into the crew barracks.

These quarters were for humans only; there was never a robot to be seen here, aside from the occasional passing guard.

It was nearly curfew; the crew were supposed to be in their quarters by now. However, despite Piranha's sporadic efforts this rule was so loosely enforced that it looked as though half the pirates on the ship were still strewn about the halls – some drinking, some hunched in small groups playing one or another of their innumerable gambling games, some entertaining themselves with fights of varying sizes and levels of earnestness. At the sudden appearance of the First Mate, nearby pirates scattered, and as he walked at a deliberate pace through the corridor, a magical void was created continuously all around him, as though his presence magnetically repelled all life within a certain radius. Despite this, considerable noise, scuffling, arguments, and even the occasional clatter of dice could be heard nearby, without any visible source. Piranha showed no reaction, only sauntered along with an expression of detached, faintly ironic amusement.

"No, you underage idiot, your _hand,"_ came a voice through the hubbub.

Involuntarily, Piranha halted. He turned to look down a branch of the corridor he had just passed.

Some distance down that hall, a gigantic young pirate was hunching down to look at someone hidden behind some crates – someone whose penetrating, scratchy voice had instantly yanked Piranha's attention.

"Wha chu wan for?" the young pirate was saying. He was massive, thickset, blond, and he spoke Galactic with an accent so terrible that it was clear he must be a brand-new recruit from the planet they were just about to depart.

Piranha, flattening himself against the wall, slid quietly down the corridor towards him, dodged behind then hopped up onto and over a series of kegs and boxes. Silently he maneuvered himself into position to see the pirate and his interlocutor. Well, well... if it wasn't Old Fungus.

The slave stamped his foot irritably. "What for? So I can tell the rest of your fortune, you lackwit lout. Show me your palm!"

The pirate was a greenhorn, all right: young, barely an adult. No metal trim on his clothes; he hadn't yet learned the proper style for his new home. There was a fresh healing scar across his arm. He waved a meaty pink palm in front of the soothsayer.

"Fortune! Always lucky, me."

"No doubt," the old man muttered. "You're a pirate and not a corpse, ain't you? Too dumb to be anything but lucky."

"Not dumb, old magic man. Look!" The young giant pulled his hand back to fish a gold coin out of a bag on his belt. "See? Gold!"

The old slave admired it, with considerable sarcasm. "My mistake. _Very _intelligent."

Triumphantly the pirate stashed his coin away. "Pirates like gold. You want pay, you tell fortune."

"You want fortune, you pay."

"How much?"

"Not much, boy. I tell fortune, you kill me."

The pirate drew back; his complacent smile wavered a little and began to melt, as if in the rain. He eyed the impatient old man dubiously.

"Not too complicated for you, is it, swiftie?" the old man snapped.

The pirate considered. Then a crafty look spread across his face.

"You try! Too smart for you. I kill, then you paid already, won't tell fortune. No way, old cheater."

The slave simply looked at him. Then, rolling his eyes, he turned and walked away.

Piranha slipped down from his hiding place and softly followed, slinking in behind the barrels and crates, staying out of sight.

The old man headed steadily down the hall, ignoring the occasional jibe or shove aimed at him by the occasional pirate. Piranha followed, keeping him in sight at a distance. It wasn't difficult, as his own presence cleared a path as suddenly as before. The old man, noticing the disturbance behind him as the pirates scuttled away, once or twice turned to look back with puzzlement on the empty corridor; but Piranha had already dodged behind a crate.

As the old man reached the elevator, though, Piranha surged forward, plunging down the hall at a dead run; then, realizing the elevator door would open at any moment, soared into one of his huge leaps, grabbed one of the ship's handy hanging lamps, swung in a great arc, then flung himself into the air as if to catch a trapeze. He hit the ground, somersaulted a few times, and sprang to his feet right beside the startled soothsayer. As if knowing its cue, the door promptly opened; and Piranha, grinning, ushered himself and the old man in, while rapidly ushering the few pirates and slaves already in the elevator, out. The door closed.

The old man, in shock, pressed up against the elevator wall and stared at Piranha. Piranha smiled; a toothy, gleaming, unnerving smile that would have fit well on his namesake species. While the old man watched, his grey eyes wide, Piranha reached over, opened the control panel of the elevator, and switched it off. The cubicle halted, midway between floors. Piranha closed the panel and stood in front of it.

The two of them looked at each other for a time in silence. Then Piranha said casually, "So... how's business?"

The old man eyed him distrustfully, but didn't reply. Piranha smiled a little more; even more alarmingly.

"I've been looking for Hacker – you prognosticated anything for him lately?"

The pirate soothsayer remained silent. Piranha cocked his head ironically. "I'm happy to run across you though... Been thinking about you."

The slave didn't seem pleased. He was closely watching every shift of expression on Piranha's face as though to read the future there.

Piranha said, softly, "This must be the longest conversation we've had yet without you insulting me! Are you all right?"

The old man's brows creased, he straightened a little, glared. But he still didn't speak. Piranha leaned back a little in a faintly exasperated gesture. "What, used up your entire stock of words? I can't believe it."

The soothsayer couldn't stand any more. "So now you come to bully an old man?"

"What? Oh, no, not at all," Piranha crooned. He was reaching for the arsenal in his vest, as the old man's eyes followed every move. "No. Only it just struck me... I haven't paid you."

Involuntarily the slave fell back against the wall. "See, I don't want to be ungrateful," Piranha went on. "You took a lot of trouble with me, you deserve it. Knife okay?" He was drawing out his most elaborate dagger.

The old man was silent, breathing fast. His eyes darted about, to one side, the other, to the dagger, to Piranha's face. Piranha held still, looking at him. Then, with abrupt force, he thrust a big hand against the old man's jaw and neck, pinning him to the wall, and slammed his body against the man's trunk, flattening that to the wall as well. His eyes stared like two black holes into the old man's grey ones.

The soothsayer began to writhe madly, fighting with all his strength. Piranha pressed the head upward a little, raising the jaw, baring the neck. The old man gasped, his struggles redoubling, trying to kick at the empty air where Piranha's legs weren't.

Piranha looked at him coolly, with an air of slight puzzlement. "What's this? Don't you want to get paid?"

Small, unintelligible noises escaped from the old man's mouth. His eyes were fixed now on the dagger that was slowly approaching his neck. He was flailing harder than ever, clawing at the rocklike hand restraining his head. Slowly Piranha brought the knife closer, a faint cold smile on his face.

"Dear me, no words? No prediction? No insults? No _thanks?"_

Abruptly the old man quit fighting and sagged, almost collapsing the two of them onto the floor. Piranha hauled him up, propped him back against the wall.

"You seem upset," he said. "Is something wrong?"

The old man's eyes were flicking from the knife to Piranha's face, to all corners of the elevator, back to Piranha's face, he was panting.

"Be honest," Piranha said, softly, still keeping a hard grip on the man's neck. "You don't really know a thing, do you? You just like to _twist_ people a little. Don't you?"

The old man didn't respond; his faded, watery eyes fell shut.

Piranha stepped back and let him go. The old man straightened up, rubbing his neck, staring at Piranha with deep suspicion. When Piranha made a slight move with his knife hand, the old man lurched back, crashing into the wall.

But Piranha, smiling cheerfully, was merely putting the dagger away. "Guess that settles it," he said. "You're satisfied without full payment. I just wanted to be sure."

The old man took an infuriated breath. "You _bastard!"_

Piranha shrugged.

The old man roared, his voice cracking, "You lying, cheating hypocrite! Don't even have the guts to do it, do you! Can't look me in the eyes and use that knife! You slinking _coward!"_

Piranha raised his eyebrows, giving the old man a direct, alert look. His hand moved towards his vest; the slave scrambled hastily sideways.

But Piranha reached out quickly and grabbed the man's robe, yanked him closer. At the same time, he reached over with his other hand and turned the elevator back on, pressing the button for the slave quarters level; the car began to move downward. He gazed into the soothsayer's face, intently but with remarkable calm.

"Look, old man. I understand you more than you think. I know you do want peace. And you know I can't give you any. It's not what you find at the blade of a knife. Peace isn't death; and that's all a poor pirate has to offer.

"You're no mystery, you old fraud. You're just like me. In fact, I'm probably more of an illusion than you are. You can't scare me any more, so go find a better target." He put a hand over the hilt of the dagger under his coat and gently smiled. "Unless you truly want to put my hypocrisy to the test."

He let go of the man's grey rags, keeping his calm gaze on his face. The slave withdrew a little, rearranging his robes, not taking his eyes off Piranha for an instant.

They were still staring at each other when the elevator door opened. Without a word, the old slave lunged past Piranha, out the door, and skittered away.

Piranha pressed the elevator button. The car headed up.

> > > > >

Back in the corridors of the working level of the ship, he was meditatively hopping from the top of one high heap of crates to the next, pausing after each leap to look down at the traffic below. Nobody noticed him – the hubbub of voices, clanking metal, and clumsy footfalls was more than enough to conceal what quiet noises he might make.

Still no sign of Hacker. For the moment, though, Piranha was content to watch with interest the passing pirates. Once again he was startled at the difference in his own perception of them – as though up to now he had been seeing them through a screen that blurred them to monochrome shadows. Now they emerged in all their variety and colour. There were gruesomely scarred, debilitated, ragged old campaigners literally on their last leg, arm, eye; fresh young meat decked out in bright colours and shiny metal trim, strutting in their prime; there were robots, no two alike, clothed and unclothed, huge and small, blockish and wispy, shiny and scuffed, in all possible shades of metal from yellow-white and silvery through greys, coppers, bronzes, to steely blue; their motions and postures entirely as varied and individual as the humans'. Piranha surveyed them all, motionless as a bird of prey awaiting the right victim.

And then, unexpectedly, it arrived. Piranha sat up straight; a chill ran through him. For a moment he hesitated. He hadn't been thinking of this one. It was the sole prey on board he wasn't sure he could handle.

But yes, it was the one he'd been waiting for. He plunged.

> > >

The tall, slender robot jolted to a halt as a small figure in a large, ornate hat and oversized black cloak dropped from the ceiling right in front of him.

Piranha bowed, sweeping the hat off his head, then straightened, his faintly mischievous gaze taking hold of the two translucent, glowing, sky-blue oval patches that served as the silver robot's eyes.

"Tulik," he said. "My trusty lieutenant. Just the robot I want to see."

"First Mate," replied Tulik, making the brief cross-chest salute used by the pirates in their rare formal moments. "I'm afraid this glimpse will have to suffice. I'm wanted on the bridge at this moment for takeoff."

"Takeoff?" said Piranha. "We're departing the planet now? Just like that?"

"The Boss is in a hurry," Tulik said.

Piranha tilted his head a little, looking at him. "Rendezvous with the 'black hole'," he said. "Right? What is that, anyway?"

"I can't talk about it right now." Tulik tried to step around him, Piranha moved smoothly to block him.

"It can't be much of a secret, if the whole ship is going there."

"Not a secret. But I'm wanted on the—"

"And I'm not," Piranha added, coolly. "Shouldn't a first mate be involved in wrapping things up for departure?"

Tulik said nothing. He merely turned his smooth, nearly featureless mask of a face towards Piranha and remained unnervingly still, as only a mechanical being could.

"Wouldn't this be a good time to show me a few of the ropes? I need to know how to pilot the ship. Here I'm supposed to be First Mate, and it's all I can do to get a two-second glimpse of the controls."

Tulik remained motionless. Piranha looked steadily back at him. At last Tulik said, with obvious reluctance, "If – the Boss hasn't seen fit to let you be taught, I—"

"Why d'you think he'd refuse to teach me?"

Tulik looked away. "Sir... I couldn't say."

Piranha moved a bit closer, his intense black eyes forcibly drawing Tulik's gaze back to him.

"Tulik, my lieutenant," said Piranha, after a moment, "there seems to be a great deal you can't say."

Tulik didn't answer. Piranha went on, quietly. "Yet I have so many questions. Questions I can't ask anyone but you."

The robot jerked back a fraction, as if in alarm. Piranha said, "Such as... Tulik, how long have you known Anaconda?"

Tulik's metal body froze, utterly inanimate. Piranha went on calmly, "What do you know about him? What about the pirates, the ship? Where did the ship come from? And the robots, what's their story?"

After a long pause, the silver robot said, "These are abnormal questions, First Mate."

"I know. But you have the answers, don't you."

Tulik took another step back. "We don't talk about the past. And there are things humans have no right to ask robots."

"So it seems. But I'm asking anyway."

The silver robot looked off into another part of the room, as though longing to escape. "You're First Mate. No human has ever been my senior officer before. I'm not sure if I can refuse."

"Let's just say," said Piranha, "that you can't."

Tulik gazed at him again in silence.

"That was a joke, Tulik. I'm not ordering you, it's a request. Tulik, please, will you talk with me?"

The silver face with its unblinking eyes continued to gaze at him motionlessly for quite a while. Piranha looked at him just as steadily, still with his slight smile. At last Tulik said, "Why are you asking me these things?"

Piranha said, "Because... you know, Tulik, aside from anything else ... I would like very much to talk with you."

Tulik said, "You're talking with me right now. What you mean is ... one of those _human_ conversations."

Piranha smiled more. "Okay, yes. A human conversation." Tulik didn't stir, staring at him with his head slightly tilted, unmoving, as if immobilized by doubt.

"— Aren't you curious?" Piranha said.

Tulik's stance changed slightly. Decision.

"All right," he said. "About two hours from now, in the officers' mess hall. I'll come there after the launch." He took a step, then looked again at Piranha. "We'll talk."

Piranha could have sworn there was the faintest hint of nervousness in that measured, metallic voice.

(End of chapter 12)


	26. Tulik, Part 1

_I'm going to submit this fast before I get tempted to start revising all over again. Well, after all, it's been so long since I posted a chapter that I'm nervous about committing myself to this one. Especially since Chapter 13, the four parts of it, is unfortunately all talk. _

_This section follows directly after the last one, a few hours later in time. Just recall that prior to this, Piranha had met the old soothsayer and talked to a robot in a bar, and altogether had quite a day of shocks and changes and had made some decisions. That's the context in which this chapter begins. I mention all that since it's been a little while since you read it... _

_Okay, good luck, hope it's tolerable. I don't think the wait will be quite as long for the next three sections. They're all written and are in various stages of being cleaned up._

_And in case anybody has forgotten, Rayman is © UbiSoft Entertainment. In this chapter, the rest are mine!_

* * *

**Chapter 13: Tulik**

**Part One: A Human Conversation**

The vast mess hall was a sea of long tables and benches, abandoned but for a few small cylindrical cleanup automatons that bobbed sluggishly along the empty rows like buoys among the waves. In the dim half-light of the off-hours, the place looked even more enormous.

It was not completely empty. Out in the middle of that vacant sea, stretched on one of the long tables like an ocean creature stranded on the beach, lay a small black form. Its rounded body lay inert, its head rested on its two black-gloved hands, its large eyes were shut. But from time to time, two glittering slits appeared deep under the large black hat, as the eyelids parted slightly, darting a fierce glance; waiting with the hard patience of a predator.

Far down the corridor, an elevator door clanked open and shut; firm, unhurried footsteps began to approach the wide double door of the mess hall. At length a silhouette appeared in the doorway, tall and slender, its angular outline flashing silver from the pinpoint lights behind it in the corridor. It paused, looking over the room. Then a quiet synthetic voice cut across the silence.

"First Mate?"

The figure on the table didn't stir. "So you did come," said Piranha.

The silver robot inclined its head slightly.

Slowly Piranha got to his feet on the table. With the careful thoroughness of a cat, he stretched himself, eyeing the lanky figure in the doorway. Suddenly he leapt off the table, across the wide gap to the next row, skidding onto the wooden planks and off again to the next, all the way up to the row nearest the door; where he landed with a thump and abruptly sat down.

"You're late," he said. "I thought you had changed your mind."

Tulik moved his head in the robotic version of a shrug. "I wasn't able to leave right away," he said.

Piranha's eyes narrowed, his teeth glinted. "Imagine that," he murmured. "Can it be the Boss _suspects_ something?"

"He always suspects something," the robot replied impassively.

Piranha eyed him darkly, but changed the subject. "I felt the ship take off," he said. "We've left the planet."

"Yes, First Mate," Tulik replied.

"No one on board seemed to notice."

"It's routine."

"We came," said Piranha, "we took what we wanted, and now we go."

"Of course."

"We'll never return there, I suppose?"

"Not likely. Certainly not within a human lifetime."

Piranha's cold eyes flared a little. He held still, poised on the tabletop, hands gripping its edge, his small body tense as a set trap.

"Are you dissatisfied?" Tulik said. "Did you think we should stay longer?"

A grim smile. "Not particularly."

Tulik remained silent. Piranha fixed the robot with an impenetrable stare. "A microphone on you would be undetectable," he said.

"Yes, that's quite true," the robot said. "Particularly since I use microphones to hear with. They undoubtedly could be rigged up for eavesdropping." He met Piranha's fierce gaze with equanimity.

Some of Piranha's tension muted. He stood up on the table. "Tulik," he said, in a low voice, "I've always spoken freely to you. Was that wise?"

The silver robot tilted his head slightly in a characteristic gesture that in some indefinable way suggested a smile. "I'm sure it's not. But I'm a better judge of folly than of wisdom, Piranha." He paused. "While your talent is likely the reverse."

Piranha took a deep breath.

"All right, never mind," he said. "Tulik, what I want to know—"

Abruptly the robot raised a hand. Piranha stopped. Tulik motioned towards the door.

"Come with me," he said. Without another word he set off in long-legged strides.

For an instant, Piranha hesitated, then scrambled after him.

> > > >

In the elevator, Tulik selected the top level, the tenth. Piranha's eyebrows raised. That stop opened into the familiar short corridor leading to the enormous engine room. At the _other_ end of that corridor, however, was a large metal door, heavily guarded, never opened. Behind that door, rumour said, lay the robots' private quarters. For once, rumour might actually be correct.

The lift halted at the tenth floor, but its door remained shut. As Piranha watched, Tulik turned to brush his silver arm against the back wall of the elevator. Part of the wall slid back, revealing a narrow passageway.

"You can't open this panel," Tulik said. "It responds only to a sensory chip that robots have built in. Come on." He walked into the passageway.

Piranha followed him without comment. The narrow passage quickly opened into a wider metal-walled corridor. As they walked, his gaze darted about the place. Though at first glance it was much like any other hallway on the ship, something about it was unsettling. It was empty, with an abandoned look, as though no one had come through here in centuries. The lighting was dim – even more so than in the rest of the ship – and though less scratched and dented than elsewhere, the walls were far more dingy and dusty, the metal seams black and corroded with age. Nothing ever touched these walls, no shoulders or backs ever brushed against them; no drinking or gambling games, no lounging or brawling, took place on these floors. Yet into the metal surface, twin footpaths were faintly worn, one down each side of the hall.

Some of Piranha's unease could be traced to a stifling, oppressive atmosphere that wasn't merely metaphorical. The air was stale, very stuffy, with a strong taste of oil and ozone. Involuntarily he took in a long, unsatisfying breath.

"Can you breathe well enough?" Tulik said. "The air in the robot quarters isn't recycled. It should be sufficient, however."

"It's all right," Piranha said. And grimaced. Human speech seemed alien here, as unnervingly out of place as human breathing.

Tulik continued down the hall to a cabin door which he opened, again using that built-in sensor, followed by a code he quickly tapped on the wall, perhaps on some sort of concealed keypad. They entered. Piranha hesitated; they were going from a poorly lit corridor into hollow blackness. However, as he crossed the threshold he saw that the room was outlined faintly, like all rooms throughout the ship, by luminous greenish strips at the baseboards. He followed Tulik in, closing the door behind him.

As it closed, the door automatically locked itself with a soft click. Piranha twisted back towards it, startled; cabin doors didn't have automatic locks. At the same time, Tulik was lifting up a thick, heavy metal bar that probably weighed more than Piranha did. He jammed it into strong metal clamps, sealing the door. Fists tightening, Piranha made an automatic lurch in his direction; but held himself still.

The robot turned to him. "I have lived alone," he said, "for quite a long time. One develops habits."

Piranha unclenched his fists. "I never thought of you as the paranoid type," he said.

"Paranoid?" Tulik said. He glanced at the door, then back at Piranha. "No." The soft blue glow of his eyes shone through the darkness like twin moons.

As with most of the robots, those glowing eyes could apparently see with almost no light. Tulik strode into the black, creaked open a cupboard door somewhere, and returned to the center of the room. Between his hands, a brilliance flared up briefly, an intense blue-white spark like a speck of burning magnesium, that caromed blindingly off his polished metal body then tapered into an icy glimmer. He placed the little lamp on a table, where it flickered, dimmer than a candle.

As his stunned eyes adapted, Piranha peered around. The cabin was tiny, less than a quarter the size of the one he occupied with Elly. The floors, the walls, everything was finished in thin grey metal, making it look more like the inside of a locker than a room. There was no bed, no chairs, no kitchen, no bathroom; it was an empty cubicle with a few cupboards, plus the small metal table.

"My, Tulik," he said, "where do your friends sit when they drop in?"

"Robots don't drop in," Tulik said, impassively. "Robots don't have friends."

"Robots don't like chairs, either?" said Piranha. He turned away to prowl slowly around the room. "Anaconda does – but his tastes are a little exotic for a robot."

"Indeed," said Tulik, shortly. "However, I will get you a chair, First Mate."

"Don't bother," Piranha said. "I can sit on the table." He halted; turned sharply back to the robot. "Tulik. Why did you bring me here?"

"Safety. I make it a habit to ensure this room is not bugged."

"You're not supposed to bring a non-robot into this section, though, are you. Just at a wild guess."

Tulik shrugged. "Nobody ever follows all the rules all the time."

Piranha couldn't repress a smile. "Not even Tulik?"

But the robot looked sharply towards him. "Piranha, you're in a dangerous position. Do you fully realize how dangerous it is? You have dedicated enemies. Hacker has wanted Blargh's spot ever since he first got it. When Blargh was alive, Hacker didn't have the nerve to get rid of him. But you're another matter. Even though you put up a good front, you're still an alien, a human, inferior by nature in a robot world. He's watching for his chance."

Piranha smiled wryly, beginning to poke around the room again. "Hacker's much more of a watcher than a chance-taker. Besides, Tulik, the Boss is gunning for him. The poor guy's got his hands full just not getting killed."

Tulik shook his head. "Alliances shift all the time. Anaconda doesn't like his officers to accumulate too much power. He encourages a little rivalry at the top. If Hacker does go after you, Anaconda won't interfere. You must never let your guard down."

"Good advice. Which the newest recruit already knows." Piranha gave Tulik a sardonic look. "Be honest, what does it matter to you? After all, you're a robot yourself. You were here long before I arrived, and you'll be here long after I'm gone."

"You're my superior officer. It's my duty to make sure you are adequately informed."

"Thanks, that's most unpiratical of you. The thing is, Tulik, you haven't seemed all that concerned with my information adequacy until tonight. You've been avoiding me for weeks."

"That's true."

Piranha's eyes darkened. "So why do you suddenly decide to talk to me now?"

"You asked me."

"I've asked you before."

Tulik hesitated. "Something changed. I recognized you again."

There was a silence. Piranha stood at one side of the room, his black clothes blending into the shadows. In the weak light, only the few silver highlights on his hat and coat stood out. He turned the glint of those dark, sombre eyes directly towards the silver robot. Tulik remained standing by the table, the bright, curved metal of his body gleaming with reflections. The two of them looked at each other, not stirring.

At last Piranha said, quietly, "All right. I won't insult your understanding by being anything less than blunt. Tulik, I want to know what this ship is _for._ I mean, robot pirates? A bunch of machines ransacking the universe? Why?"

Tulik tilted his head but didn't speak. Piranha added, "Can robots get programmed with human greed? Look, one of them told me today he was evil! What's that supposed to mean? An evil _machine? _How can a mechanism be good or evil?"

"You said you weren't going to insult me," Tulik said, dryly, "and then you call me a mechanism."

"What? Well – aren't you?"

The robot shrugged. "We are machines much the same way that humans are globs of protein jelly. The vehicle isn't the person, Piranha."

Piranha raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying you think you're alive?"

"What makes you think _you_ are?" Tulik replied.

"But – that's—" Piranha sputtered.

"... Ridiculous. Yes?" Tulik tilted his head, with that expressionless face, in that expressionless smile.

Piranha sighed. "All right. We can both have equal rights to be ridiculous. ... Besides, if I've ever met anyone who was genuinely and honestly evil, it would have to be a certain other metal-bodied person I know..." For another moment he contemplated the robot, who kept that perhaps deceptively tranquil gaze fixed on him. "And yes, it's awfully hard to think of you as a machine. No matter how much you try to act like one. All the same, it's – I just can't see how—" He sighed again. Going to the table, he pushed the lamp aside and jumped up. Sitting with his feet dangling over the side, he tilted his head in a gesture much like Tulik's. His shadow, distorted and magnified by the flickering candle-like light beside him, monstrously echoed the motion against the opposite wall. "But now you're going to explain it all to me. Right?"

"I'm considering," said Tulik, impassively.

Piranha moved his head back a little, eyeing him. Tulik was as motionless as if he'd been turned off.

Slowly Piranha smiled. "Or ... Am I supposed to explain something to you first."

Tulik didn't stir.

"Fair is fair," Piranha said. "Go on, Tulik, ask."

The robot seemed to consider for another moment. Then, collectedly, he spoke. "Back on that planet you came from – why did you fight against us so hard? Surely you knew your side had no chance to win. Why didn't you give up?"

Piranha flinched, just barely. "Would _you_ have given up?" he growled.

Tulik's glowing gaze stayed on him. "It's hard for me to imagine that situation. I don't know."

"Neither did I. My imagination wasn't up to it either." Involuntarily Piranha jumped off the table, moved forward, began to stalk back and forth with abrupt, erratic jerks and turns.

Tulik said, "I saw you, you know, when you first came to this ship."

Piranha halted.

Tulik went on, "It was shortly after you were captured. In the torture room, a few days before you were sent to the box."

Piranha's rigidly inscrutable gaze fixed on him. "I don't remember seeing you."

"Not surprising, your attention was being rather forcibly drawn elsewhere. I must say my first thought was, '_This_ is what took so long to defeat?'"

With a dry smile, Piranha turned away, resumed his pacing.

"However," Tulik continued, "I was struck by the way you were treated by the medical slaves in the torture room, after the pirates were through with you. Even unconscious, you seem to have an effect on people. Those slaves weren't from your planet, you couldn't have meant anything to them. Why did they care for you with such... tenderness? As though you were one of their own children."

Piranha again jolted to a stop. His turned his hard eyes on Tulik, cold as the black depths of space.

"I even felt a little of it myself," Tulik went on, calmly. "I wanted to – to ease your suffering. For you not to suffer. Odd, don't you think? Concern for a defeated enemy?"

Piranha let out an explosive breath. "Tulik. Will you please tell me what you're getting at?"

Tulik said, "Before you were caught, Piranha – Despite the obvious fact that they were losing and could not halt our advance, the natives of your planet refused to stop fighting. Our pirates would go out on forays and return with bizarre tales about the leader of the resistance, a strange little being who appeared and vanished like a shadow, who struck with unlimited blasts of energy; who would hide, snipe, pick away at even a large force of robots, harry and worry them and take them out one or a few at a time until the whole unit was destroyed or fled. Large expeditions went after him and returned much smaller. It became increasingly risky to make progress reports to the Boss.

"Planning combat strategy was Blargh and Hacker's job, not mine. It's fairly standard, doesn't require much in the way of brains. But we were losing so many robots that I thought I'd better look into it.

"It wasn't hard. I found out everything I could about that troublesome native, his habits, his abilities, and the terrain of areas where he might be encouraged to turn up. I devised a plan, pounded it into the officers' heads, and within a week we had him. You."

Piranha was looking at him steadily. "So," he said, quietly, "so you were the one who finally took the trouble to think."

"Yes," said Tulik.

Piranha gazed at him for another moment, then returned to his fitful circling of the room.

Tulik went on, "That broke the planet's resistance, we swept forward effortlessly from there. Yet when we left your world, we brought negligible booty, and not a single slave. As Blargh once said, the only thing we got from your planet was you. And you certainly didn't come cheap. We had sacrificed a third of our robot force.

"Even since we left, nothing has returned to normal. Blargh is gone, his vast gang is a shambles, his long-time booty-running operation has collapsed. The human pirates are unsettled, they get ideas they never had the nerve to think of before. And there are more subtle changes that I can hardly define, but which I think are slowly drifting the _Insurrection_ away from its traditions."

Piranha stopped to lean back against the wall. "Are you blaming me for all these improvements?"

"What does it matter? Nothing is going to be done about it, because the Boss is happy. You've given him a new interest in life."

Piranha grimaced.

"Oh, yes," Tulik said. "Long, long before our adventures on your planet, he had fallen into boredom and laziness. Nothing could coax him out of his room except the occasional fit of paranoia against some hapless officer. But on your world, as our invasion dragged on, as we suffered unheard-of losses, and as our work there kept being sabotaged, he began to take notice. He became offended. Anaconda is vindictive, always, but it's rare for him to bother with individual captured natives. But in your case, he took it very personally. I've never seen even a rival pirate captain rouse that much fury.

"He insisted you be brought in alive. We lost dozens more robots because of that. But he had _plans_ for you. Seeing you a prisoner on the ship, he hated you ten times more. He had plans for you, and yet – you're not in the isolation box. No one is ever released from those, but you're out, and not in chains or under torture but free, and a _pirate._ You're his second in command! Don't you find that peculiar?"

"Yes, Tulik, I find it peculiar."

There was a pause. Tulik said, "Knowing your planet could not win, why did you keep fighting?"

"Tulik... That life is over. Let's leave the dead alone. They might be contagious."

Tulik only looked at him.

Piranha took in a long, resigned breath. He swept the wide black hat off his head, holding it against his chest. In the blue-white lamplight, his springy blond hair glowed almost platinum. He shook his head. "They needed a leader, a hero. All they had was him – was m-me. They needed him to win, they trusted in him, and they were cheated. They will hate that leader and curse his name till the end of time. At least, by all the gods I hope they do." With a sort of morose, ironic flippancy, he swung his hat in a wide arc, twirled it, and tossed it carelessly back onto his head, all without any change in his grim expression.

"So," said Tulik, "you regret continuing to fight."

"No. Giving up would have been worse."

"Do you regret joining the pirates?"

Piranha's wary black gaze fixed on him. "No."

"But then," said Tulik calmly, "why should you regret it? During our invasion you were powerless, on the run, knowing your world was being destroyed, knowing your own death or capture could not be far off. Now you're one of the conquerors – in fact, one of the most powerful; second in command on a warrior ship that can overwhelm nearly any planet."

Piranha stared. "The pirate philosophy in a mouthful. Is _that_ what you think matters?"

"Doesn't it?"

Piranha's hands clenched automatically into fists for an instant, then he began to approach Tulik slowly, gesturing fiercely as he spoke.

"How about you? Don't _you_ have regrets? You knew before I was caught that you should kill me. If you'd killed me, the invasion would have worked, your ship would have gone back to normal, I wouldn't be here now upsetting the pirates and distracting Anaconda from his music and torture. Maybe you'd have a shot at becoming First Mate yourself."

Tulik said blandly, "I agree regrets are worthless. Apparently you don't think power is worth much either. Does anything matter to you?"

Piranha halted, his ferocity draining away. He went back to the table and sat down, slumping forward, his face resting oddly in one armless hand.

"Look, Tulik," he said, wearily, "I've lived my whole life hanging on by my fingernails. I always used to trust I'd win somehow. Now I just close my eyes and pray I won't lose my grip."

"Did you realize what would happen when you accepted Anaconda's offer?"

"What?" Piranha slammed his hands down on the table, nearly launching himself into the air. "What offer?"

"Why, it was the talk of the ship at the time. How he promised to let you out if you'd swear loyalty to him."

"Him, make _me_ an offer? Are you kidding?" Irritably, Piranha gestured widely with his hands. "Can you see him coming up with anything like that?"

Tulik regarded him with interest. "Do you mean it was your idea?"

Piranha's black glare was growing more volcanic by the second. "I said I would work for him. If he would free my planet. _That_ was the deal. That _is_ the deal."

"A captive under torture, and you were thinking about your _planet?"_

Piranha's eyes narrowed. "What else would I be thinking of by that time?"

"Obviously, saving yourself."

"Saving myself?" Piranha snarled. His black-gloved fingers gestured fiercely at his piratical clothing. "Is this your idea of being _saved?_" The fingers balled into fists, he shut his eyes and turned away, his body quivering.

Tulik watched him for a moment. "I don't understand," he said. "No human would endure the isolation box, if he had a choice."

The small being on the table was taking long breaths, struggling to calm himself. He shook his head impatiently. "Look, Tulik, I didn't have to endure the box. I was weak, sick, it wouldn't have been hard to abandon my body. And I was ready, I was longing to abandon it. To wipe out my —" He paused, again shutting his eyes. "Waiting there, in that hideous room full of coffins, I was bound, in the grip of guards, unable to stand, half-blinded, suffocating. Submerged, drowning in my own – my criminal failure, it was whirling around me, buffeting me like a hurricane, I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe. But then some sound, something got through to me. I looked up, saw my friends. Those metal brutes shoving them into grey boxes. For murder or torture, I didn't know which; but —" His big hands wrapped themselves around his body, as though to hold him together. "Imagine, there I was all knotted up with my own wretched guilt. The _self-indulgence_ of it! To die, to boorishly flee – while my gentle planet, my kind friends, while hundreds of thousands of innocents one by one were breaking in Anaconda's metal fist." He wiped his face with one hand, pressing his eyes. "No, I had no right to abandon my friends. I had to hang on. In case some day, something might yet be done for them.

"You really felt that much obligation to them?"

Piranha smiled listlessly. "Maybe not to them so much. Rather to – to Rayman."

Tulik tilted his head. "I thought that was your own name in your world."

"The name of —" Piranha squeezed his fists together, hunching over a little. "He never was real. But he existed, oh yes, he was everywhere. Keeping an eye out. He still is."

"I don't understand that, Piranha."

Eyes lowered, Piranha shook his head. "Never mind, Tulik, it doesn't matter." Lowering his head, hunching over more, as though in physical pain. "The only thing that matters is my deal with that bastard."

"For the sake of your friends."

There was a pause. Then Piranha nodded curtly, not meeting Tulik's eyes.

Tulik said, "I've always been curious about the interrelationships of natives. Would you consider your feelings to be typical?"

The faintest smile twitched across Piranha's face. "Reasonably typical, I guess."

Tulik said, "Human pirates sometimes become what they call friends. From what I've seen, that means they get drunk together and then generally try to kill each other."

A dispirited chuckle. "Well, at least they're trying."

"But that doesn't sound like what you mean by the word."

Piranha sighed. "What it means depends on the people involved, Tulik."

Tulik thought for a few moments. "What would a 'friend' mean to a robot? We have no use for the concept."

"Oh, I don't know," Piranha said, tiredly. "How about somebody who'd – get you to an energy socket and plug you in if your batteries got discharged?"

"Someone who'd take the trouble to help another when there was nothing in it for him? Rare indeed."

"Oh, no, no! That's completely wrong!" With abrupt animation, Piranha leapt to his feet on the table. "Look, no one ever really knows what's in it for him. We _can't_ know that. We can't operate on that basis, it's too short-sighted, too small-minded, too _dangerous._ Worse, it – makes us too small and contemptible to ourselves." He flung his hands apart. "It's not even practical! You fail to help somebody, perhaps he's the very person who might have gotten you out of a tight spot another day. Or have helped somebody else, somebody you love perhaps. Or – well, you just can't know. It doesn't matter. You _have_ to help, there's no other choice. Otherwise you lose your – lose yourself." He blinked a few times, as though coming out of a trance. Then, meekly, he sat back down.

Tulik said, "So that's what it's like to be human?"

Piranha rested his cheek in his hand again, glumly. "Sometimes. Once in a while. Now and then. No, maybe not."

"But that," the robot said, _"is_ the thing that matters to you. These interrelationships."

Piranha avoided his gaze. "I don't know. It's something built in. It's the way we are, my people – my kind."

"Humans?"

Piranha shook his head. "Not humans. Energy beings. The planet belonged to us, once. Long ago. No matter, I'm still the guardian of all the beings of my world, the old, the new, all kinds. They're all my people." He glanced at Tulik; for an instant the look in his eyes was harrowing. "But we – _we_ are energy beings. We sense each other across long distances, we know what each other thinks and feels, we give and draw life from each other... charge our batteries, you could say... exchange energy... At least ... Exchanged energy." He averted his eyes again.

Tulik said, quietly, "The humans on board this ship. As first mate you are their guardian too. Are they also your people?"

Piranha made an involuntary gesture, thrusting his hands away. "No. Maybe. No." He shivered. "I can't let that happen."

"Let what happen?"

Piranha glared. "I'm not part of this place!" Then winced at his own words. "I mean... I _am,_ but—" Pressing his hands together. "Can you imagine having to keep yourself completely alone? Having to resist _everyone,_ everywhere, all the time? Trust no one, ever? Who can – who can bear to live in a cage like that?"

Tulik's expressionless almond-shaped eyes shone through the dim light. "I see. You're saying you have thoughts you can't speak. Perhaps for a long time."

Piranha turned sharply to look at him.

Softly, thoughtfully, Tulik added, "Trapped inside yourself..."

Piranha sat up alertly.

The robot didn't look at him. Through a long silence, Piranha waited, watching him with an intent, serious gaze.

At last Tulik said, in a low voice, "We've been talking, haven't we? A human conversation."

"So it seems, Tulik."

With uncharacteristic restlessness, the robot turned away from him and walked a few steps. Then he returned, coming several steps closer than before. His blue eyes glowed intensely.

"I have not spoken my own thoughts to anyone since... You remind me of her."

"Her?"

"Yes," Tulik said. Some indefinable tension of decision straightened his thin metal frame. "I'm going to talk to you. I'm going to say whatever's in my mind. I think she would have approved of you, Piranha." He paused. "I don't think she would approve of me, anymore."

"Tulik – who are you talking about? _What_ are you talking about?"

Blandly as though listing crew duty assignments, Tulik said, "Robots didn't always command this ship, Piranha. We were slaves once."

(End of Chapter 13, Part One)


	27. Tulik, Part 2

_I know, I know, more talk. Well, if you don't like it, skip it. There is important information in these sections, but who's going to remember it by the time the whole story is written, anyway?_

_After Chapter 13, the story will return to more action, in fact there's an increasing amount of action as things move up towards the climax, beginning in Chapter 15. These past few chapters of talk and soul-searching were just an episode in Piranha's career. If I could rewrite the whole thing from scratch that part would be shorter, but it couldn't be avoided entirely. _

_Anyhow, thanks for your patience. I hope you like history. And stuff._

_And of course, Rayman is © UbiSoft Entertainment._

_**Note: I really, really hate the crappy formatting on this website. If you want to see this thing the way it was supposed to be, read it on deviantArt or "Rayfics" at LJ. The changes are minor though (for this chapter), just spacing. (I hope nothing else in this chapter got messed up by my adding this message.)**_

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**Chapter 13: Tulik  
****Part 2: Claustrophobia**

Piranha sat up sharply, all attention.

"This ship was made by humans," Tulik continued. "It began many galactic cycles ago as the City, a travelling colony. Whatever planet it came from originally, ages before, was forgotten except as legend."

"So the first pirates _were_ human."

"The humans weren't exactly pirates. The City was designed to be a self-contained system, requiring nothing from the outside – tracking every molecule of every critical element, with a carefully designed ecology for renewing water and air, maintaining its population within certain limits, strictly controlling the production of food and treatment of waste, and so on. It made for a frugal way of life, though so well planned that conditions were very pleasant. But some leaders of the City began to want more. They had come to believe that their own ancestors, back on the legendary home planet, had been vastly rich, far richer than they were, and they felt cheated by the restrictions of ship-bound life. Even though they were superior to the other humans on board by rank, by prestige, by the honours they received, they could not increase their luxury and power without taking in more resources from outside the ship. They began to think of conquest.

"Being refined, sophisticated people, not enthusiastic about getting dirty or risking physical damage, they decided that the robots they had always built as domestic servants and labourers would do just as well for warriors. The City would conquer lesser civilizations, and increase not only its own wealth but the size and strength of the robot army at its command.

"The robot designers had a sense of irony, it seems. The city leaders had always amused themselves by keeping robot servants that acted comical and foolish. Now, transformed, the servants became parody pirates, with silly clothes and habits that were a mockery. The masters thought it was a great joke. But they were serious enough about the booty."

"The pirates were a _joke?"_

"Not so amusing to everybody. Under those farcical-looking exteriors the humans built fighting machines of great toughness and durability. As you know."

Piranha winced. "And as a final irony their farcical slaves overthrew them and made them into second-class human pirates..."

"No," Tulik said. "There was a civil war."

"You mean the humans fought among themselves?"

Tulik hesitated. "The whole society fought itself. In the end, only robots remained."

"But there are still humans here."

"What, the slaves and pirates? Merely recent captives. For eons we robots were alone."

"Eons? Tulik, just how long ago did all this happen?"

Tulik thought for a moment. "There would have been thousands of human generations since then. In typical planetary terms, hundreds of thousands of years."

"Hundreds of thousands of years of robots mechanically carrying on a dead purpose, plundering and killing, replicating themselves in a void to serve vanished masters..."

"Not exactly, Piranha. First of all, what makes you think we robots have no interest of our own in booty? That was built into the pirates' programming, for one thing. For another, we still need raw materials for repair and reconstruction of ourselves and the ship. The old human ecology was destroyed in the war. It was never designed for _us_ in any case, and it couldn't have survived the tremendous alterations we've made to the ship. And—"

"And _Anaconda_ likes power. And luxury. Slaves, too. And he doesn't risk himself a whole lot. He seems to have learned a few things from your human forebears. The kind of people who would invent pirates."

Tulik made a dismissive gesture, looking away. "Things were very different under the humans. They had a stable society for many, many generations, before the desires of a handful of leaders became warped and unbalanced their world."

"A golden age, as they say? You think so? How do you know, really, Tulik, what proof do you have? People always glamorize their early history."

Tulik turned sharply to stare at him. "What history? I remember perfectly well. My first memory is of a human face, hers – my creator, Artoe."

Piranha gasped. "You go back to human times? You can't be that ancient!"

Tulik shrugged. "I am. We all are, all the robots. There have been no new robots made since the death of our makers."

Piranha sat back, a little shaken. "But – You have losses in war, heavy ones sometimes, like – on my planet. How do you replace yourselves?"

"Didn't you hear me? We don't. We can't."

"Tulik, I've seen for myself how well you can repair damage to robots – and the vast reconstruction you must have done on this ship – all sorts of things—"

"Yes, we can do that. But we're unable to make new robot pirates."

Piranha rubbed his head uneasily. "It doesn't make sense."

"After the humans were gone, over centuries we enlarged the ship and simplified it for purposes of piracy and for the requirements of robots. Eventually, however, it became necessary to re-adapt it to humans again, to accommodate captives. We could not expand without more pirates, so to free up robots, we permitted human servants. Some became fighters, and at last pirates of a sort, taking on the ancient robot traditions. Gradually their numbers have crept higher."

"Doesn't that worry you a bit? By now the human pirates must outnumber you robots three or four to one, not to mention the thousands of slaves on board."

"Nonsense. Slaves have no influence. Human pirates are ignorant, unskilled, booze-soaked louts, nothing like the humans of the old days. They come and go almost as quickly as slaves, they don't breed on board in any numbers, and they have little knowledge of the ship. Few of them care about anything beyond food, drink, and the other usual human proclivities. In any case, if the humans were ever to get too unruly, it would be simple for us to seal off the tenth level, secure the engines and transfer the ship's controls to the robot section. If needed, we could flood the decks with paralyzing or lethal gas and drop every non-robot in its tracks. – I hope, Piranha, you're not thinking of starting anything so futile."

"Me? No," said Piranha. "Though it does strike me as the kind of thought Anaconda could think somebody might think of."

The robot made an uncharacteristically abrupt gesture, flinging out his arm. His usually neutral voice sharpened with contempt. "Anaconda? He's spent half his life putting down uprisings that never were going to occur in the first place, and another quarter planting counter-plots to create turmoil he could manipulate to keep attention off himself. His sole notion of leadership is divide and conquer. I—" He halted; then continued more quietly.

"Piranha, I was so ignorant when she was alive. I had no experience. It meant everything to me that she would tell me her thoughts, even when I barely understood them. She must have known what a – child I was, but she talked to me anyway. I wonder if in the end she regretted her own generosity."

"She? You mean your, er, creator, Tulik?"

"Artoe was the only one who would ever bother to explain anything to me or let me ask her any questions. She was the only one who listened to what I said. Humans thought it comical to be conversing with a machine as if it were a person. I didn't grasp at first that though we robots were very aware of being alive, of being individuals and conscious, the _humans_ – particularly the scientists and engineers who created us – were convinced that we were not."

"What? I thought they _designed_ you to be alive!"

Tulik made a dismissive gesture. "Robots were designed to _mimic_ life, but everyone knew they couldn't _be_ alive. The people of the City, from the children to the engineers, were firmly taught not to 'anthropomorphize' robots. Much as they also were careful not to 'anthropomorphize' the planetary beings their robot pirates preyed on."

Piranha's brow wrinkled. "But how could they miss a thing like that? Why didn't you just _tell_ them?"

Tulik tilted his head. "You're something like her, you know," he said. "Too direct sometimes. Willing to see exactly what's in front of you. I think humans might call you naïve; you violate their normal method of only seeing what they _believe_ is there."

Piranha shifted uneasily. Tulik, however, had already returned to his previous thought.

"I was one of the last robots she made, Piranha. Advanced mentally; physically simplified. She kept me in the lab, taught me to help her with her work. She let me ask her questions about my own kind, about humans, about everything that didn't make sense to me. She tried to answer as best she could. But she talked mostly about politics, which is what she called her frustrations with other humans." He turned to look at Piranha directly, out of those blank blue eyes that for a moment seemed full of melancholy life. "I could ask her anything, and speak any thoughts at all to her, no matter how naive. And she freely told me hers. Almost as if we were – as you say – sharing energy."

Piranha nodded sombrely. Tulik continued, "Back then, when I was new, there was no thought yet of civil war. But it was a strenuous period of pirate buildup, a nervous time. There were incidents.

"Once, four men came into the laboratory, strangers to me. I could see the tension sweep through the room the moment they were announced. The scientists and assistants stopped their work, turned to face the visitors with their heads bowed.

"The men were tall, slender, elegant. They were leaders of the aristocracy, the men most involved with the pirate scheme and who benefitted the most from its profits.

"They went up to Jennat, head scientist of the group, and without a word of explanation one began to shout at him, insulting him, accusing him of undermining the pirate project, of slacking off in production and not coming up with the more powerful models they'd demanded.

"Jennat didn't say anything, he only stood submissively. But Artoe cut in. 'Slacking off?' she snorted. 'Our staff strains day and night to make three old-style robots a week as it is. On top of that you'll add the months of hard work it takes to develop and test new models? If you want more out of us, give us more to work with.'

"The man turned to her, stared her in the face, then turned back to Jennat. 'Who is this?' he snapped. 'Keep your subordinates under control, if you want to keep your subordinates. I want four robots a week from now on. And when I come back in ten days I expect to see your plans for the new models finished and ready for approval.' He turned his back, and they all headed towards the door.

"Artoe blurted out, 'How long do you think we can go on this way?'

"The men glanced back at her. The spokesman sneered, 'Poor thing! Working too hard?'

"'Yes, but that's not my point. How much longer are we supposed to be making pirates?'

"He turned now to face her fully. 'What's this? In the lab of all places? An anti-pirate?'

"'I'm anti-criminal. I'm anti-making the City a _world_ of criminals.'

"He laughed. 'Criminals! It's not criminal to be superior. If those primitive planeterds are too stupid to defend themselves and their goods, they don't deserve them. And if you have so much sympathy for worthless brutes, what does that say about _you?'_

"He turned to Jennat. 'Make sure I don't see her when I return. She's not to be trusted with designing or programming robots, only with parts assembly.'

"The men left. Then Jennat and Artoe got into a yelling match that went on for hours."

He paused. "I'd always believed that piracy was the foundation of the City's life, and the highest calling for a robot. I'd never known a time when there weren't pirates. I had even less idea that there were human citizens who were against piracy. And now I found that Artoe, whom I respected more than anybody, was one of them. It was shocking.

"When we had a chance to talk later, I bombarded her with questions. Who was that rude stranger to talk to her in that degrading way? Why did all the scientists let those men shout at them? And – were we robots being made for _them?_ Was there something wrong with pirates? Hadn't there _always_ been pirates? Should _I_ not be a pirate?

"She said, 'All I ever cared about was exploring the potentialities of robots. That's it. And look at the things I have to do, to pay for my absurd hobby...'

"That frightened me. 'Artoe, you mean I'm just an absurd hobby?'

"She smiled suddenly. 'Tulik, you're not half as absurd as those men today, those armchair buccaneers.' A statement which didn't much help my confusion.

"Tulik," Piranha broke in, "I don't get it. I thought you weren't a pirate."

"I wasn't meant to be one. But our lab was kept frantic designing and programming them. From time to time Artoe would get into trouble for holding on to her useless pet robot, and I would be taken out of the lab and sent with the pirates on a planetary invasion. She always found a way to get me back. She made sure that I knew pirate techniques, so I could survive, but she did all she could to keep me from _being_ one.

"In spite of her, I'd always _wanted_ to be one. In my eyes, piracy was a noble mission to support our world. The humans of the City, at least the ones outside the lab, lived in comfort and beauty, and they were so comfortable and beautiful to look at. It was only natural for them to own everything.

"But after all my idealism about the pirates, I was horrified the first time I saw them in action."

"Horrified? By the violence?" Piranha ventured.

"What else would you expect from pirates? No, it was – that they were so much like machines."

"But, well, Tulik —"

Tulik looked at him sternly. "We've already covered that, haven't we? I'm not a machine, I'm a living being. They were too. Yet when certain words were spoken, or when they saw certain objects, the pirates reacted automatically, without a thought, almost without any control over their own actions. They were _programmed_ to be pirates, in both the farcical and the violent aspects of their behaviour."

"Tulik – forgive me if I don't understand, but doesn't a robot have to be programmed? Even you?"

"Yes, of course. I am self-programming. Like a human."

"Like a human?"

"I readjust my thought processes all the time, based on new experience, comparing it to previous experience, accepting or rejecting data according to judgement based on that experience, modifying my behaviour accordingly. There are very few fixed responses. That's what's called rationality."

"Rationality..."

"All the high-grade robots have some of that. Only, fixed programming puts limits on it. Where the programming is wired-in, they aren't rational. A pirate doesn't have much choice to think about whether he wants to get booty, or drink, or brawl. When he is triggered to do that, he just does it. It's not really him doing it, it's the machine in him. Still, fulfilling the machine's demands gives him satisfaction, even pleasure."

Piranha eyed him thoughtfully.

Tulik continued, "To me, the pirates' minds were narrow, claustrophobic. I hated being around them. At the same time, I couldn't look at them without a sort of guilt. They were crippled and couldn't even understand that they were. It was maddening. Why were heavily programmed robots still being made, when it was possible to make ones like me that could think for themselves?

"I couldn't make any sense of it, and I turned away from robots to humans. Even if they would never feel more than bare tolerance for a lowly robot, I could not help longing to learn from such brilliant, confident beings with so much flexibility in their programming.

"Then one time a pirate and I went down to a planet on a scout mission, preparing for an invasion. It was unsettling, Piranha. Until that time, I had never encountered planetary natives except during an attack. I didn't look on them as anything but screaming, chaotic, mindless herd animals – even more limited than the robot pirates. But now, unaware that they were being spied on, they were living their normal lives, going about their work and play with the same ease, happiness, and confidence of our own human masters in the City. They acted just like real people. And the horrible thought struck me: Could _our_ humans, treated in the same way that we treated natives, also – react the same? No defence algorithm but scattering frantically like a suddenly uncovered swarm of bugs.

"I have answers to that question now. But at that time the idea shocked me. And it set loose a torrent of upsetting thoughts.

"The people of the City used to take tours through the robot quarters, pointing and laughing at the drinking, dancing, clowning pirates, who unwittingly performed for their amusement. Even their method of "lubrication" with rum the humans found uproarious. But none of our elegant masters ever landed on the planets to see what those clowns did down there. They would have disdained to commit such acts as we performed for their sakes, and certainly they never dreamed that _they_ could experience any violence. A robot servant who so much as broke his owner's dishes was liable to be recycled; if one had ever threatened a human, he would have been blasted into a molten puddle by the police.

"Humans, with full awareness, created limited, crippled beings to do work they despised, yet which they were increasingly dependent on. The more dependent they became on the pirates, the more farcical they made them appear, and the more tightly they kept them locked up in their own section of the ship. To do their work effectively, pirates had to be rational and self-willed, but the humans clung to a myth that they were nothing but stimulus-response machines with no awareness whatever.

"It was nothing but contradictions, Piranha. Thinking about it made me feel I was floundering in space with no gravity, no solidity, no orientation in time. It made me frantic. And – unhappy."

Unexpectedly, Piranha's face turned ashy pale. He put his hands to his mouth, bent forward, nearly fell off the table.

Tulik took a step towards him. "First Mate?" he said.

Piranha looked up, almost collapsed again. "Dizzy—" he mumbled.

"Air," Tulik said. He took Piranha's collar, lurched him off the table, then tucked the small body under his arm, strode to the door, deposited Piranha next to it. Quickly he yanked out the bar, jerking the door open. He pushed the inert Piranha slightly out into the hall.

"Breathe out as hard as you can, flush out your lungs," Tulik murmured. He kept inside the doorway, peering out occasionally to glance up and down the corridor.

Slumping against the doorframe, Piranha sat for some time taking deep breaths of the fresher air. Gradually the color returned to his face, and he began shakily to get up. Tulik put a hand on his back to keep him in place. "Give the room air time to refresh," he said, still very low.

At last Tulik touched Piranha's back again, signaling him to rise. He did, looking ruefully up at the robot. "Didn't realize I was such an air hog," he said.

"_Shh!"_ Tulik's synthetic voice made an extraordinary sound, startling, forceful – and quiet. He pulled Piranha back from the door and shut it again. "Is the air tolerable now?" he asked.

"I think so." Piranha took a long breath. "That sure sneaked up on me. I didn't notice feeling queasy until the last couple of minutes. Then I got clubbed in the head."

Tulik nodded as he replaced the heavy bar on the door. "I apologize," he said. "I thought the passive air diffusion would be enough; I was wrong."

"I thought you said there was no ventilation in this section?" Piranha said, climbing back onto his seat on the table.

"No active ventilation, but if the air was completely stagnant, dangerous fumes could accumulate over time from oils and chemicals; eventually a loose wire or some other spark might cause an explosion. So there are small ducts that allow air to exchange with the rest of the ship, where it is purified. That is sufficient for our purposes."

Piranha looked at him attentively. "Dangerous fumes? Explosions?"

"Some things should not be left where human pirates or slaves might get their hands on them. Volatile things that leak fumes. There is also the normal outgassing of robot lubricants and so on. The buildup is slow, over years, but we have to think of these things."

Piranha looked at him closely, but Tulik seemed entirely unaware, or unconcerned, that he had just let slip something that sounded remarkably like important robot-only information. Then that featureless face turned towards his, their eyes met.

After a moment, Piranha broke away to glance around the small, shadowy room. He smiled a little. "So this section's a powder keg? Now I feel even more claustrophobic in here."

"There's really no danger, Piranha."

"I know. No, it's the atmosphere."

"You don't need to worry about that. I know your time limit now."

Piranha smiled again. "Not that kind of atmosphere. No, it's that the room feels so – uninhabited. Like nothing has ever happened here."

For a moment the robot was motionless. Then he said, "Nothing has. Only me."

"You, yes. Not all the robots are like that. They may not have friends, but they at least go to the bars, drink, gamble, get rowdy once in a while. But I never see you with them. And I bet you've hardly ever had a visitor in this room."

The robot shook his head. "Never. Not since it was built ages ago. I live alone, Piranha."

"Yes. I'm beginning to see that."

As Piranha settled down on the table, Tulik picked up his story again.

"I stopped resisting Artoe's attempts to keep me in the lab – even though by now, after so many shocks, I felt as uneasy around humans as among the pirates. It was a relief to turn to the tasks Artoe gave me; and I began to get interested. I apprenticed at one job after another, always collecting data, always thinking. I helped out as a lab assistant in different sciences, I spent time in factories and offices, I worked with engineers on ship repairs, eventually I even learned navigation and piloting. Robots weren't supposed to know any of that, but Artoe finagled it through a network of friends, as a semi-secret experiment.

"It was a revelation to me to see the breadth of human activity, the complexity of their society and of the ship we lived in. Over time, working with humans, I developed a better understanding of their strengths and limitations, their abilities and their attitudes, just as I had with the robot pirates. I was reminded by every human action, in the most subtle ways as well as the obvious, that they were resolutely unaware that the mechanical toys they used for everything from cleaning floors to serving dinner to slaughtering foreigners were alive. Because I was more responsive than the usual robot, I made them nervous, sometimes sharply defensive.

"I could understand their confusion about me; what I couldn't sort out so easily was my own. Where did I fit in? What had been Artoe's real purpose in creating me? What did she think she was doing? What fate did she imagine for me? Had she thought of me at all? Or was I merely an experiment created to satisfy some superficial curiosity?

"Still, the more I thought it over, the less it mattered why Artoe had made me. I had to find out for _myself_ why I was alive.

"One day, I was piloting the ship. I looked out through the main view screen at the vast space we were always travelling through, at that enormous network of stars that made up the universe. It looked random and chaotic, but with the ship's ancient charts and careful new observations we were able to plan our route through it with safety.

"Abruptly, from nowhere, I had a startling thought. And as though that triggered a pre-arranged cascade of logic switches, all my accumulated doubt and confusion tumbled instantly into a pattern, a complete, coherent structure I couldn't have imagined a moment before. I was petrified. At the same time, I felt I'd been launched like a missile.

"Why hadn't I seen it? What could be more obvious? Robots should have their own civilization.

"Why must robots be defined by the desires of humans? Frittering away their talents in petty violence and in carrying food trays? Having heads and four limbs and walking upright in a mockery of humanity? What was the _real_ nature of robots? Who knew what unique path intelligent, purposeful, independent robots might find, free from the control and influence of humans?

"Our society wouldn't be opposed to the human one. It would be complementary. Perhaps completely separate. We would soon leave the human world behind, as primitive planetary ocean creatures abandon the sea for the alien, unimaginable land. There was no predicting what sort of entities we might evolve into. Or what purpose we might ultimately serve, perhaps some function that no other being could accomplish?

"The idea was so big it frightened me. But the cascade of ideas was an unstoppable torrent now. So many possibilities, wild notions, experiments no one had ever thought of, surged through my mind all together. Out there against the black background of space, I seemed to look at a three-dimensional reality, fragmentary indefinable things filling the universe, at the same time solid, real, close enough to touch, though I still couldn't comprehend what they were. I gazed down an immense swath of time, peering into our unknown, unknowable, limitless future. It was a vision. And I was desperate to make it real, if only to see what it was.

"I saw something else, too: I had never truly _wanted_ anything before. I had observed life with curiosity, I had been intrigued and disturbed by it, but it had never occurred to me that I could be part of it, that I could _start_ anything. But I was fully involved now, all right, almost more than I could bear. I wanted something, wanted it very badly, and I would have to change reality to get it."

Tulik fell silent, gazing at the floor. Piranha said in a low voice, "It's a rare piece of luck for anyone to find something they care that much about."

Tulik's blank eyes turned slowly towards him. "Is it? I don't know. I've never been off this ship, except on short excursions to kill somebody on some planet."

Piranha looked at him sombrely. Then he stood up and stretched.

"Is that when you started it?" he said. "The rebellion? The war?"

Tulik tilted his head in his expressionless smile. "Bah, Piranha. You have no idea how naïve I was. Nothing like that would ever have occurred to me.

"I told Artoe all about my vision, all my thoughts. To my horror, her eyes filled with tears.

"'Tulik,' she said, 'if only we could have a _human_ civilization like that.'

"'But humans _do_ have a civilization like that.'

"'Oh, no they don't,' she said. That was all she would say. But she actually reached over and hugged me. She rarely touched anyone, even other humans. I wasn't sure what it meant, but it seemed favourable.

"Quietly she set out to help me. She gave me books about human society, economics, history – sometimes, I suspected, to show me what to avoid. She would talk with me, listen to me. More than anything though – in her own personal lab, after work, she secretly began to build a robot. A self-programming robot, even more advanced than I was, with improvements based on what she had learned from me.

"And she let me help her. Do you understand the significance of that? No robot had ever been allowed to learn anything about the fundamentals of hardware or programming. She could have been executed if it had been found out, and so could I. For even if humans didn't believe robots were conscious, it was still absolutely forbidden for them to know anything that might enable them to rebel – just in case. She was handing me the most valuable contraband humans possessed.

"It was terrifying to be committing such a crime, even more to see Artoe in danger. But to experience, over those many weeks, the slow birth of another being that would be like myself – Can you imagine how I felt, Piranha, seeing something no other robot had ever seen? And understanding it, I felt, in a way no human could ever understand it.

"However, the work went very slowly. Neither of us could often get away from our jobs. I was constantly in demand for piloting or accounting or manufacture or repairs, there was always a long backlog to catch up on. The ship seemed to be fraying away in those days, nothing was properly maintained, as more and more manpower and robot-power was being diverted to piracy. As for Artoe, she worked even harder; along with the other engineers, she was in the main robot-building lab from early morning until late at night every day, struggling to keep up with the always increasing demand for pirates.

"As for me, I hardly noticed the endless petty tasks I had to do. For the first time in my life I had a purpose, and everything I saw and did fed into that, was reflected or refracted by it and through it and against it. My mind was exploding with ideas, there was no room left for anything else. I would get angry and enthusiastic and frustrated a dozen times in half a day. I didn't recognize myself – but that in itself was wonderful. At the same time, underneath my preoccupation, I was aware of how badly things were going for the City, and for my mentor.

"Poor Artoe, she didn't have the strength to talk or listen now, much less work on our project. After her long days at work, it was all she could do to push a little food into her mouth and fall into bed. I would stay quietly in her apartment at night, thinking and thinking. And worrying about her. She wasn't a young woman any more; I could see the heavy work wearing her down, day by day.

"And then, in the midst of our frustrations, the war broke out."

(End of Chapter 13, Part Two)


	28. Tulik, Part 3a

_Well, you're almost through it – this is the last chapter of endless babble. By popular demand (i.e., one person), I'm confusing things further by breaking up this chapter into two entries, but that's purely to make it easier to read. It's all Part 3. _

_After this, no more historical disquisitions! There is a Chapter 13 Part 4, but it's different (and very short). Then we will be done with Chapter 13, and nobody could be happier about that than I am. I'm hoping the rest of the story will go faster. I've hardly written anything on Chapter 14, so it should be a lot easier to do – just write it fresh, instead of having to jam together a bunch of wildly conflicting fragments already written over a long period of time. (My usual method lately.) _

_If I've learned anything from this fanfic, it is _never_ to write a novel slowly. Given time, it gathers contradictions and darts off in unexpected directions, which cause the author nail-biting, grey hair, and various painful mental dislocations in the effort to yank the thing back to its proper route. Or else to give in to "brilliant" plot swerves which will probably land the whole affair in a ditch. So much for metaphor, but urk, there's always a tension between forcefully following a carefully constructed plot line, which becomes increasingly boring, and letting wild impulses take over, which can really make an incoherent mess and pretty much put to waste a story that took a lot of time and effort to write. At least that's how it seems to go for me. Of course, it should all be revised after being finished, but that's not going to happen in this case, so I'd better get it pretty much right the first time. (Crawls under a rock)_

_Rayman, Ly © UbiSoft Entertainment  
Other characters © Just me and a long history of literary clichés_

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**Chapter 13: Tulik  
Part 3a: Stifled Ambitions**

"The war broke out?" Piranha said. "The civil war?"

"Even I could see the trouble coming," Tulik replied. "The tension in the City had become very high. There were mutterings, stirrings, hints of rebellion.

"The people had long been used to having an easy life – robot labor freed them from any kind of occupation they found unpleasant. A handful of aristocratic families did live in luxury far beyond the rest, but even the most unimportant humans had two or three robot servants. All human needs were well satisfied, and everyone had plenty of free time. Of the ones who worked at all, most held administrative jobs supervising robot labourers. A few dabbled in the arts, philosophy, lower-level government, and other such frivolous fields, and then a small number chose to become practical-minded scientists, technicians, ship handlers, educators, doctors, and the like.

"But that was all changing as the City became more and more addicted to the making and using of pirates.

"Piracy had begun long before I was made, but on a small scale. It had continued to grow, and by my time it was an obsession. The public followed the details of pirate raids and the doings of famous pirates with an intensity that had once been reserved for the love lives of aristocrats. When we were between raids, public tours through pirate quarters were the favourite form of recreation. And where once people had gone on tours to laugh at the foolish pirate antics, now there was a tendency to gawk in admiration and fear – though the pirates were just as foolish as ever.

"Meanwhile, increasingly heavy pressure came down from the aristocracy. At first their demands for more and better pirates were felt only by scientists, engineers and manufacturers who actually designed and made the robots. Gradually the squeeze extended beyond our labs – to factories, to set aside goods for the public to manufacture more robot components; to schools, to educate more engineers, technicians, and scientists; to every household, to cut back on their use of domestic robots so more pirates could be made. At first, many made these sacrifices willingly, proud to be contributing to the City's heroism and wealth.

"But the demand for sacrifices continued to grow; and gradually, so did unrest. Though the majority of citizens continued to support piracy, some began to wonder why. They had never had to work so hard before; and the reasons for it were only becoming less clear. Piracy was supposed to make their lives easier, and yet to finance it, their comforts, conveniences, and possessions were all rapidly diminishing. There was a barrage of talk on all the media explaining that all these changes were temporary, to handle the emergency, that ultimately everyone would share in the profits. But when robot labor in machine and food production began to be replaced with work by actual human hands, many people left doubt behind and arrived at outrage. There were objections, discussions, arguments, and finally strikes, fights, riots; and these were suppressed by police with increasing levels of violence, unheard of in the past. Weapons designed for insane criminals were applied to citizens who were often only expressing disagreement. In turn, the demonstrations themselves became more violent, and there was fierce controversy over who in these battles was to blame, and indeed whether people had any right to object to piracy at all. The once-peaceful City had never been like this.

"Once I told Artoe I thought the humans of the City were being treated much as they had always treated robots. Why did they seem to find that so unreasonable? After all, _we_ put up with that treatment for the good of the community. Why shouldn't they? That made her laugh. 'Now if they'd been properly programmed, they'd be just as willing to put up with it as you are,' she said. 'Their education has been badly neglected.'

"Well, I was used to not getting her jokes. Or what she pretended were _my_ jokes.

"Joking aside, more than once I overheard Artoe and her colleagues soberly talking about the situation, wondering how much worse it could possibly get."

"Yet," said Piranha, "I had the impression your City folk weren't the violent type."

Tulik shook his head. "They never had been in the past," he said. "But they were learning. In fact they were learning with a speed that surprised themselves."

Piranha seemed about to reply, but decided not to.

Tulik continued, "Late one night, a man knocked on Artoe's apartment door. I opened it, and impatiently he told me he must bring her to a friend's apartment for an emergency meeting, even if he had to drag her out of bed to do it. Which he did. I stepped aside, knowing it wasn't my place to interfere. Indeed, despite some minor grumbling, Artoe was out the door with him in less than five minutes, leaving me behind without so much as a look. That was no more than I expected.

"But I didn't know what to think when, a few hours later, Artoe returned, and without a word gestured for me to follow her. She brought me back to the meeting.

"There were perhaps twenty of Artoe's friends, associates, colleagues. I could hear their angry voices several doors away as we approached. But the moment I stepped onto the threshold, there was silence.

"'Some of you know Tulik. We'll need his help,' Artoe said, in her dry, matter-of-fact way.

"She waited for a while as the voices erupted again with shocked objections. I waited too, just about as shocked as they were, though I had no idea at all what they were discussing. After the disputing died down a bit, she started in, and after that nothing could stop her until she'd had her say.

"She had quite a bit to say, too. I missed a lot of it, because her first few words left me so stunned that I couldn't even listen to what came after. 'It's one thing to undermine their programming,' she said, sarcastically patient – her usual manner in talking to any group – 'but just how are we going to get them to move in _our_ direction? What if they join the wrong side?'

"To my amazement, no, to my horror, this group was programming a revolution. They had been subtly altering the newest pirate models, to make them more independent, more rational, less submissive to their masters. And the plans went beyond that.

"'Tulik is indispensable to us,' Artoe was saying. 'Which of us robotics engineers can pilot the ship? He can. Do any of us know how to run maintenance, the life support systems, the hospitals? Tulik knows all about those. We won't be dependent on getting the managers in any of those fields to join us, and we'll still be able to keep the City going as parts of it come under our control. But most of all, who is going to convince those pirates to come over to our side? And keep them there? Tulik is a robot, he's fought with the pirates. At least they'll listen to him! We can only end piracy by using the pirates themselves. Tulik is our vital link to them.'

"I didn't want to contradict her in front of all those people, but if I ever had a moment of panic in my life, it was right then. It was bad enough hearing her say I could run all the systems of the ship. True, I had worked in all those areas, but only under close, I might say paranoid, human supervision. I had never been in charge of anything. But never mind that. What about this insurrection she was plotting? The notion of ending piracy made me reel! Did I even agree the City should be changed? And if it should change, should it be this way? Also – I was afraid of the new pirates. I didn't know what they might do. I certainly had no confidence that they would listen to anything _I_ said."

Tulik glanced at Piranha with that expressionless hint of a smile. "I shouldn't have underestimated Artoe's powers of persuasion. My opinion was irrelevant."

"That's a new look at you, Tulik – a revolutionary leader!" Piranha grinned.

Tulik shook his head. "Not a leader. An assistant. Not a revolutionary, even. I had no desire for revolution. I did what my mentor and her friends wanted. Whether they were right or not I couldn't trust myself to decide.

"Artoe didn't leave me in that doubt, however. She talked to me about my own hopes for a robot civilization, and about the vital need for the human City to free itself from the burden of piracy. I began to grasp what she was thinking. These two things could fit together. If we got rid of the City's pirate-crazed leadership, there would then be a chance to put our energies toward a society that would be better for robots and humans alike, not based on the drudgery of robots, not based on pillage of other human species, freeing both robots and humans to seek more constructive paths. That was what Artoe wanted. I have no doubt she was sincere."

"But Tulik, how did a handful of disgruntled scientists set off a shipwide war?"

Tulik shrugged. "They didn't set it off so much as try to channel an explosion that was already igniting. As I said, there had already been sporadic outbreaks, protests, impromptu riots, attacks on robots, on police; many unplanned, disorganized, disorderly incidents. Artoe and her friends tried to guide that building frustration in a more purposeful direction. They would distribute leaflets anonymously, hold small private conversations; rumours and ideas began to seep through the channels of human acquaintance.

"As for me, they had me talk to robot pirates whenever I could, and to servant and other worker robots, to offer them my idea of a robot society, to be built in alliance with the human anti-pirate faction. Some did listen, even when they scoffed. It was becoming increasingly dangerous though for me to say such things, even out of human hearing.

"As society grew more and more tense, at last there came a real act of sabotage, the bombing of a pirate manufacturing lab. No humans were killed, but a number of uncompleted robots were destroyed – not only enraging the aristocrats, but also alarming the City's robots. No one knew who bombed the place or why – I don't believe it was any one of us – but the act crystallized the huge, surging ocean of unrest; and abruptly things went from talk to action. The City government building was bombed. Aristocratic party buildings were mobbed and destroyed. There was coordinated police or army response from the pro-pirate government, violent reaction from some of the anti-pirates, singly and in groups. Very quickly, full-scale war developed. I was astonished at the amount of weaponry that human groups had somehow gotten together, but the real fighters on both sides were robots.

"The majority of the newer, more powerful pirates took the anti-pirate side. They saw more options there, more chance to control their own future. My words apparently had affected them more than I'd believed. The older, more obedient pirates and the personal servants mostly sided with the aristocrats, their traditional masters. Their side outnumbered ours, but our robots were much tougher and better armed. The humans of the City were split. However, it was the robots who had the heavy weapons and could invade the bastions of the aristocrats. In fighting, humans mostly killed only each other, which summed to zero.

"Both sides had strong armies, both soon controlled large parts of the ship. Many people and robots were killed, many of the scientists who led our side were captured or assassinated, much of the City was damaged. It became a terrible war, even more terrible because it was fought in our fragile ship; there was no safe place, nowhere to retreat to, no way to avoid attacks. And there was the continual danger of breaching the hull and destroying all the humans on board, or even the vessel itself. A spaceship doesn't make a good battlefield.

"In the end we anti-pirates managed to seize the ship's engine room and master systems board, which gave us control of all the essential functions of the City. The surviving aristocrats barricaded themselves in the lower levels. The City was in chaos; in some parts of the ship we could barely keep the life support systems functioning. People disappeared and were never found, many died from hunger, thirst, cold, gravity fluctuations, bad air, darkness..."

Unthinkingly, Piranha pulled his coat tighter around himself.

Tulik paused. When he continued, his rough synthetic voice was low, almost human in timbre. "All through that concatenation of destruction," he said, "the thought of four men never left me. Those four leading aristocrats, the ones who had come to bully Artoe and her colleagues at the lab long ago. Perhaps it was unfair, but I had always blamed them in particular for the atrocious mess the City had become. I have to say I felt a certain shameful satisfaction whenever I got news that one of them had been killed. It was something I couldn't admit to Artoe. I'm not sure why I admit it to you, Piranha."

Piranha eyed him with interest. "What makes you think it was shameful to feel that way?"

Tulik shook his head. "I don't know. But I do know that it always disturbed me when I heard humans cheer at each others' destruction."

Piranha grinned wryly. "You're being unpiratical again, Tulik. Got to watch out for that."

"I suppose so. In any case, the death of the last of those leaders was nothing for anyone to cheer about. He was killed by a bomb, ambushed while en route to a meeting with our side to negotiate a truce. The bomb erased him and his retinue very thoroughly. It was also very stupidly placed; it breached the hull and several air locks, started a catastrophic atmosphere hemorrhage. Every robot in the area, from either side, had to join in a frantic effort to seal off the leak and brace the hull and decks before half the ship collapsed. The man's body was never recovered, aside from a couple of stray parts.

"I couldn't help blaming him for that disaster. Even if he was the target, not the wielder, of the bomb, it seemed like a last act of sabotage on his part. As though he were deliberately trying to drag the whole City with him those last few paces into death."

Piranha looked at him sombrely. "Wasn't that the last of the aristocrats, Tulik?"

"It was the last of the important ones. There were dozens more in hiding, of course, with their families, followers, and hangers-on. Even before the war, in various parts of the ship some aristocrats had built self-contained mini-fortresses in case of catastrophe. No doubt some of those still had independent sources of power, repair supplies, lab equipment. However, we controlled the ship's life support systems, and those fortresses could not have run independently of those systems forever; we could have flushed the inhabitants out or killed them. Many on our side demanded that. But I was groping for a way to end the conflict with as few added casualties as possible. So all through my nonstop struggle to keep the basic functions of the ship going, I was doing my best to negotiate with the remaining aristocrats.

"They didn't seem entirely rational; they rejected or killed my emissaries, which got them nothing and increased the danger to themselves. I had a hard time getting them even to release noncombatants like their own children, who were besieged, starving, and in danger if active war broke out again. I swear that was the toughest part of the whole miserable conflict; the effort to pound some dent of reality into the heads of these ex-leaders, before they triggered a massacre of themselves."

Piranha was grinning again. "Why aren't you still captain, Tulik? Not just a fine general but an accomplished diplomat!"

"Me? Sparks, no, Piranha. I wasn't captain. I was just doing my best to keep the most vital functions going. There was nobody else to do it. The scientists and engineers who had tried to guide me at first were now swamped with robot and ship repairs and hospital work. None of the surviving humans was qualified to command the ship, the robots certainly weren't. I ended up having to make the decisions about who and where to fight, what areas of the ship to keep functional, whether to rescue humans stranded in inoperative parts of the ship, all those terrible and unforgivable decisions. I wasn't _leading_ anything. If I had been a real leader, I would have stopped being controlled by the chaos, I would have brought order."

Piranha shook his head. "Tulik, you _were_ bringing order," he said soberly. "Only there was more chaos being supplied than anyone could have kept up with just then. The fact is, the ship is still here – a downright heroic accomplishment, if you ask me."

Tulik gestured with a touch of irritation. "I was desperate to end the fighting while we still had something of the City left. Though sometimes I wondered if saving the City was really such a good idea. What we had all had to endure, what we were still doing to ourselves. We scarcely remembered anymore why it had started. Artoe never talked now of reforming the City. That would have been too cruel a joke. As for me, I lived with a continual and growing sense of revulsion, for our opponents, for our own side, for all humans, even for robots, brainwashed by programming and incuriosity.

"But in the end, like any robot, I did my job.

"I think Artoe must have divined the state I was in. In the midst of the chaos, in defiance of the chaos, during those last days of the war she took up work again on our self-programming robot. She coaxed me and teased me until I gave in and found time, though like her I had none, to work on it.

"Piranha, it was the reboot I needed. Soon there would be another one like me. Even though my – my friend would be coming to life in a world of madness – even though I could hardly dare imagine what sort of madness that being might end by taking on – even though often enough I felt insane myself, in those days – All the same, I longed for that being to wake, I longed to know who it was, what it would become. To help it become someone. And with the two of us working together, perhaps more could follow. It gave me hope."

There was a silence. Piranha looked at the robot. Nothing, of course, no hint of life, showed in that immobile, smooth, nearly featureless face. The silence continued. Piranha, watching him uneasily, hesitated.

"Tulik," he ventured at last. Involuntarily, his voice came out as a whisper.

The robot's silver head turned slowly towards him.

Piranha's voice stuck in his chest. He tried again.

"What happened, Tulik?" he asked.

Tulik's thin body moved, a slight, vague gesture. He spoke quietly.

"There were only a few holdouts left of the enemy," he said. "Major parts of the ship were stabilizing. Life support was gradually being restored. Fighting was only sporadic, now, things were slowly calming down. In a few days Artoe and I would have the new robot ready for initiation.

"As usual, I was working on the bridge with some of my chief assistants, both robot and human. Then, not at all as usual, the door slammed open. A group of pirates burst in, followed by more, then more. Coming through the door, they blasted the guards on the bridge. They shot all my human crew members. The robots they held at bay with their weapons. It all happened before anyone could even shout.

"And at the same moment, several of my own robot followers seized me, gripping me so I couldn't move. I was still trying to grasp what had happened when the new leader strode into the room.

"The new leader. That was obvious at a glance. He was imposing, dynamic, charismatic – and completely unknown."

"A new leader? Another aristocrat?"

Tulik paused. "A robot."

"A _robot?"_

"A highly sophisticated robot, intelligent, self-directed, obviously self-programming, like me." Tulik paused again, looking directly at Piranha. "A black robot of unique design."

Piranha blinked, slowly. "Do you mean _him?_ Anaconda?"

"Yes. As he came to be called."

"But Tulik – you said – I thought you said nobody was making robots like that. Except for you. That one that you and Artoe—"

"That one?" Tulik's glowing eyes dimmed. "It was still in pieces on Artoe's work bench."

"But then, how – who?"

"Piranha, you understand that large sections of the ship weren't under our control? Who knows what might have been going on in those renegade areas? This new robot was unprecedented. Very few engineers had the ability to design and build such a being. Still, some of those engineers were among the hundreds of people on both sides who disappeared during the war. We never knew what became of them, who might have captured them, what use might have been made of them.

"I still can't understand, though, how anything new, much less such a work of genius, could have been designed and built in the midst of so much turmoil. A robot like Anaconda is not thrown together in an afternoon."

He paused. Piranha was staring at him. Tulik added, softly, "He had appeared out of nowhere, sudden as an electric discharge. The attack of the pirates against me was bewildering enough, but the sight of this robot left me stunned. Where had he come from? Where had he been all this time? I couldn't believe he was recently activated. He was so skilled as a leader, so certain, so confident; he simply assumed power and it flowed into his hands inexorably. I could see it happening as I sat there, held at gunpoint by my own men." He shook his head. "No amount of programming genius could give a robot such abilities. It took experience. Me, for example – after years of learning, I had just barely managed to become a mediocre ship captain.

"I had never achieved anything like his confidence. Certainly, I never could assume the kind of power he exercised as naturally as flexing an arm."

Piranha glared at him, bitterly. "Power! All it took to turn your own men against you was a pompous voice – and maybe a bribe or two. What kind of teammates betray their leader, their _friend?"_

Tulik twitched a hand, impatiently. "Not friend, Piranha. Barely leader. And yes, he simply knew how to appeal to them better than I did. He always has. Robots are very conscious of power.

"He had taken over the ship with startling ease. However, if the aristocrats had sent this remarkable robot to lead them back to victory, they were sadly deluded. It was clear right away that he had no such intention.

"He went the broadcast station and turned on the microphone. As my men – his men, now – bound my arms and bundled me out of there, taking me down to a solitary cell in the depths of the ship, I could hear the ship-wide broadcast.

"He announced that he was now in control. He told the robots that it was time for them to take their future into their own hands. They would now follow a robot leader, and no human would ever again have the right to command them. I couldn't help but be impressed. He spoke with simplicity, with a fine voice, with authority; and with just the right amount of flattery. I knew the robots would listen."

"But that's just it, Tulik, why wouldn't they listen to _you?_ Why wouldn't they stand by you? _You_ were a robot leader, you had brought them through the war, you were doing everything you could for them!"

Tulik shook his head. "Piranha... We were talking to pirates. Semi-rational beings. Give them a strong, simple, black-and-white message or a more thoughtful, complex, shaded one, and which will they prefer? I had talked about developing a new society, of working with the humans as equals, of eventually creating a world where all robots would be self-programming, where we could invent our own unique destiny. They had nothing against that. But Anaconda told them they could go on being pirates right now, keep the profits for themselves, and humans wouldn't even matter. Which do you think they'd choose?

"Within a day it was clear. The war of human faction against human faction, pro-piracy against anti-piracy, aristocrat against inferior, suddenly became a war of all the robots against all the humans."

There was another silence. Piranha looked at him glumly. "And so that's how it ended, I suppose? He killed the rest of the humans."

"Oh, no. No, with nearly all the robots now on his side, he was able to round up the remaining humans of both parties and herd them together into the lower levels of the ship. Many did get killed in the process, but he wasn't particularly trying to exterminate them. They had their own value, if only as defeated enemies to gloat over."

"During those weeks, I was kept isolated. I had no idea what was going on in the City. Nor did I have any clue of what Anaconda wanted to do with me. After he had consolidated his victory against the humans and taken full control of the ship, he had me brought to him. I came expecting to be executed. I wasn't at all prepared for what he said.

"He practically made a speech. 'Tulik,' he said, 'you have a great goal. You wish to teach the robots of the City to be as wise, as independent as humans. I am sorry I had to treat you in such a cavalier manner upon our first acquaintance, but I want to make up for it now. I have always admired you and your ideals. Let us work together. Help me spread your message among the robots, to bring about a noble future.'"

"Oh," Piranha smiled, wryly. "He needed your help."

Tulik gave him that tilt of the head that suggested amusement. "_Lying_ is something most robots are very bad at doing, or indeed at perceiving. We are quite inferior to humans in that respect.

"And I suppose for that reason, I really didn't know how to respond. Of course, I was deeply suspicious of him, but I wasn't sure what to make of his overtures of peace.

"Before I was willing to answer him, I asked about Artoe and the others. As a gesture of good faith, he had me taken down to see the handful of surviving scientists in their prison. To my enormous relief, Artoe was among them. She had aged terribly, looked used-up and feeble, but she brightened at the sight of me. She had believed I was long dead.

"I told her what Anaconda had offered. She thought it over, frowning.

"'Perhaps he does mean it,' she said finally. 'What can we lose by at least giving him a chance? Work with him for a while, see what happens, maybe you can have some influence. Now that he's won, maybe he can afford to be decent to the losers. Maybe he'll let you start your robot community. Maybe we can salvage something out of all this.'"

Tulik shook his head, looking at the floor. "The war had exhausted her. Perhaps she didn't have the energy for cynicism any more. Still, Artoe always would try to take the reasonable viewpoint. I myself wasn't too sure that _reason_ was going to mean anything in the dubious new world we were rapidly sliding into. But despite my profound doubts, I did want to believe things might still go that way.

"They _could_ have. They should have. The old human society was finished, we were starting over. There truly was nothing to stop us from creating a real robot civilization. Despite all we had lost, it was a moment of opportunity, if only we would take it.

"It was also a moment of onrushing disaster. We had an enormously complex ship, complex as a robot itself, which urgently needed to be rebuilt, maintained, and of course guided through space; which needed to restore life support systems, internal and external communications; repair weakened structures; which must also defend itself from possible attack either from outside or within. Before Anaconda's coup, I had begun to train a few robots in piloting and navigating the ship, but beyond that, robots had little knowledge of how to plan, coordinate or repair any critical functions.

"Anaconda could not avoid the fact that conquering the humans had only left him dependent on them. Right now he had most of them isolated and imprisoned, doing menial work, herded like the lowest class of non-sentient labor robots. He was less harsh on scientists, engineers, and the City's maintenance managers, but they too were kept under tight control. If he would be forced, in order to keep the ship going, to bring dozens of those prisoners out of their dungeons and put them back in charge, he would lose face badly with his newly-recruited robot followers. Using me was his only alternative.

"He needed me, indeed, but for all his soft talk, I knew he didn't trust me, and I certainly hadn't much confidence in him. It was a wary circle he and I danced around each other in those days. Though he always spoke to me with the most elaborate courtesy, he would make subtle allusions to Artoe and her friends, hinting about their precarious position. And I – I had to keep him placated, and indeed keep the ship running, while at the same time try to use this brief time of influence to do anything I could to bring about _my_ vision of our City's future.

"My most immediate concern, and in fact Anaconda's too, was to do something about the decimated robot population. We desperately needed workers to repair the ship.

"That was my chance, I thought. To call his bluff if nothing else. Once I had things limping along as best I could with the existing personnel, I arranged a meeting with him.

"'This is the time, Anaconda. Now we can begin to implement the plan for self-programming robots. Those are exactly what we need to replace human managers for the City.'

"'Not so fast,' Anaconda said. 'Self-programming robots take years to develop, to train, to become competent. We need robots right now. This is no time for experiments, we have to get back to reliable, well-tested models. The old-style pirates, that's what we have to start with.'

"'Pirates?' I said. 'Whatever for? Why not simple workers?'

"'We also need metals, wood, building materials,' Anaconda said. Smiling. The only robot I've ever seen with all the human facial features fully mobile. 'We barely have the scrap to reinforce the hull, nothing like what we need to make extensive repairs, not to mention thousands more robots. Without pirates, how will we get stuff to make more – pirates? And the other types, of course.'

"'That is a valid point,' I said. 'Very well. For now we'll build old-style pirates. But at the same time, we can begin developing the new robot leaders we will need in the future.'

"'Sure, sure,' Anaconda said, waving his hand. 'Come back later and we'll discuss that.' But somehow, whenever I returned, there was always another emergency to take care of first."

"For god's sake, Tulik, _why _did you go along with him?"

Tulik shook his head. "Piranha, he was right, you know, about the time it would take to develop self-programming robots."

Piranha glowered unsympathetically. "Fine, but why pirates? Why piracy?"

Tulik spread apart his hands. "The ship was no longer self-sufficient. How else would we get supplies?"

Piranha sighed and slumped down on the table.

"I was most anxious to build _some_ kind of robot," Tulik said, softly. "Even a pirate. As quickly as I could, I got together the handful of surviving experimental robots with some self-programming ability. They too were eager to create a new one of our kind. We set to work. I had already learned much from Artoe; now all the engineers, recognizing that there was no other way for the ship to continue, reluctantly taught us the rest. We followed their complex methodologies to build several new robot pirates.

"And that was when we found out. It was inexplicable. To me, personally, it was devastating.

"The robots we robots built looked fine. Their body mechanisms worked perfectly, perhaps even better than the ones that humans made. But when the time came to join the mind to the body and bring the being to life – They were idiots. Worse than idiots, they were pure machines. There was no spark of awareness in them at all.

"We tried over and over, we tore them apart and put them back together, we checked every step of their assembly, every detail of their programming. We'd done nothing wrong. They followed their programming, they worked. Yet they weren't _conscious,_ like every top-tier robot built in the past thousands of years. We couldn't understand it.

"We got the human engineers to look them over. The engineers were as startled as we were; for they had never admitted that robots _were_ conscious, not even after losing the war to them. However, the difference in action and mentality between a human-made pirate and ours was so obvious that even a human couldn't miss it.

"At first they took a very superior attitude, assuming we simply had made ignorant mistakes. But they couldn't find any, any more than we could. Even when we built the robots under direct human supervision – no. Ours simply didn't become self-aware, fully conscious. Somehow, theirs did.

"Engineers had always assumed that robot intelligence was the product of brilliant engineering. Their engineering was brilliant, certainly. But it was not until now, faced with the vast difference between a brilliantly programmed machine and a _living_ machine, that they began dimly to grasp that their programming wasn't the only thing operating in those robots.

"But Tulik," Piranha said, "this sounds like magic."

"Perhaps. I don't know what magic actually is, so I can't say. The pirates and other independent robots were never mass-produced; they were painstakingly built up from parts made mostly by hand, particularly their mental circuits. Their programming involved quasi-random factors that made each individual different, and for each individual the programming was usually tinkered with and refined by a programmer, in communication with the unfinished robot mental core, for quite some time before it was wired in permanently. Which I suppose is why one family of robots had a peculiar sense of humour that could be traced directly to their programmer, Ishtana. On the other hand, robots programmed by Artoe tended to be earnest and serious... like me, I suppose. Whatever the humans were doing that brought these robots to life, my guess is that it was subtle, so subtle and so intrinsic to human nature that they weren't aware of it; and we robots weren't designed to perceive it.

"We worked and worked with the humans, but no amount of guidance or practice changed the fact that on our own we only made bodies, so to speak, without souls. I suppose it was a sort of black magic. As a species, we robots were cursed. We were sterile.

"The vast potentialities for my kind that had been shown to me in a vision, the limitless future – it all blew away like dust. There was no hope for any of that. Robots could never become independent, would never make their own way unfettered by human imagination. I was – well, I was shattered like the poor City itself. I left the humans to lead the robot-making project, and went to wander the ship like a ghost.

"I cannot tell you, Piranha, how many hours, days, years I spent – then and for the centuries since – thinking over this tragedy, turning it around and around in my mind, striving to see something that I suppose to me as a robot must be forever – forever insubstantial, untouchable, beyond my senses." He swivelled his oval head, turning his blank eyes towards Piranha and then away to a corner of the room. "And yet I've never been quite able to believe it's truly alien to me. How can it be outside my understanding if it is life itself, the same life that you and I and any sentient being shares? How can we not understand the stuff we are made of? But the humans themselves had long ago despaired of ever understanding that.

"At last – I don't know how long it was – in the end, someone caught up with me and breathlessly relayed the urgent message: The Boss was demanding a report.

"Wearily I set aside my despair. I went to explain things to Anaconda."


	29. Tulik, Part 3b

_The continuation of the previous chapter._**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Tulik  
Part 3b: Stifled Ambitions** **(continued)**

Piranha looked sombrely at Tulik. "You had to bring Anaconda the bad news?"

"_That_," Tulik said, "was another revelation.

"He had revealed samples of his temper before, of course. Never pleasant, naturally. But never, until now, had I seen his soul entirely naked, without any shred of self-control.

"Until now I had managed to deceive myself that there might be some slight hope for a tolerable future. That there might be some chance of cooperating with Anaconda to build a new City, in however crippled a form. But now I could not avoid seeing the whole truth of what he was. And knowing with certainty that there was no hope for any of us, robot or human.

"Because he'd kept his real plans hidden until then. Now, seeing them endangered, in the blind eruption of his rage he let them out.

"He wanted pirates, he wanted far more pirates than the human leaders had ever dared to demand. He wanted to build up an army that wouldn't merely conduct raids, but that would take over whole planets permanently and enslave them to our needs; to have each planet ruled by robots, who would then produce millions more robots, who would then build ships, move out and conquer more planets, enslaving and gutting each one in turn, sending all the profits back to the mother ship."

Piranha gaped at him. "He seriously – Could he possibly _do_ that?"

Tulik shrugged. "Actually he had it worked out quite systematically. It was a tremendously ambitious plan, of course."

Piranha swallowed. "No kidding. But he – he couldn't. Right? I mean – You couldn't build enough robots, so he couldn't ... Could he?"

"If the Boss had been able to create the army he wanted, Piranha, you would have seen something very different attacking your planet. It would all have been over in a matter of hours."

Piranha had moved into a tense crouch, leaning forward. He settled uneasily back on his heels.

"No," Tulik went on, shaking his head musingly, "Now the situation was very different. Robots could only be made by humans. You see the implications.

"Suddenly, humans were priceless; scientists and engineers even more so. Like the treasure they were, they were promptly locked up and put under fierce guard.

"I was as worried about the situation as Anaconda. 'Sir,' I told him, 'the situation is changed. Now we can't wait. Urgently, we must get the humans to make as many self-programming robots as they possibly can. Who knows how long they'll be able to continue? We have to —"

"'Nonsense,' he snapped. 'Be serious, Tulik. This is no time for fantasies. We have to make every robot count.'

"'That's exactly my point!' I said.

"Anaconda aimed at me those yellow eyes, little freezing flames in his black furnace of a face. I forced myself to keep on talking.

"'Anaconda, _pirates_ will never be able to build living robots! Completely free-thinking units, fully self-programming, are the only hope we have. Someday, working with humans intensively, they may manage to find a way to reproduce our kind. And how long will we have humans to work with? There are not many of them left. Their society has been destroyed. They could slide into barbarism, forget their sciences, anything could happen – we can't depend on their help forever!'

"'Can't we?' Anaconda murmured. For a moment, looking into his face, I had a petrified sensation – like the deep chill of space, that had almost congealed my gears while we were struggling to repair that bomb-breach in the ship's hull.

"'Tulik,' he said evenly, 'It's not a matter of depending on their _help._ They are part of our _raw materials._ I hold you responsible for ensuring we maintain a good supply." And his yellow eyes, colder than infinity, burned into mine.

"I left him. I was shaken, more than ever before. I had always thought in a crisis I could stand up to him, that he was at heart a shallow egotist, a dilettante. But there was some terrible depth to him I could not even conceive of.

"I soon learned that Anaconda wasn't depending on me for his plans. He was taking no chances on the survival of the human population. He was already putting in place an organization to take care of that. Their housing, breeding, and education would all be strictly controlled, they would be isolated, individually watched, eternally under guard. Humans would become the enslaved creators of the masters of the galaxy – quite a trick when you think of it."

Piranha shook his head. "Did he really think the humans would go along with him?"

"You mean they might not want to cooperate? What would that matter? Human reproduction can be engineered, too, you know. Interestingly, robots _can_ do that. And – _you_ know the kind of persuasion Anaconda can apply to a human body."

Piranha winced. Automatically, he pulled a dagger out of his vest and fingered it absently as Tulik continued.

"It couldn't be any clearer. Even if human engineers went on building robots forever – even if we robots learned to make them – my species was dead. Just as the City itself, as a civilization, was dead – it was now a mere ship. Anaconda would never permit a society of independent, intelligent robots. The last thing he wanted was a society made up of citizens, with individual and unpredictable opinions. He needed a crew – a mob: stupid, fierce, greedy pirates with no thought beyond the next sack of booty.

"I went to Artoe's lab. I looked at our own project, the new mental core, abandoned now. It was so close to being ready for its final programming. I could have put it into an available body and it would have worked. Programmed by me, it would have stood, walked, sat, picked things up, it could have been taught to speak in a rote fashion and obey orders. But it could never _be_ anybody.

"And I was glad. I recycled it.

"It had all been a waste of time. Of much more than time. Building this toy. Fighting the war. Everything. Everything.

"I tried once more to see the captive scientists. I couldn't get access to them. But I knew they were being driven savagely, by force perhaps, building pirates day and night, hardly eating or sleeping, pushing us further and further down the path to a future that would bring no good to anybody – not to the pirates they manufactured, with their crippled, blighted souls, certainly not to the planets we denuded, and least of all to the humans themselves, whose existence would mean generation after generation of misery. If Anaconda's plan succeeded, it would benefit no one but him; and it might well fail. There was a good chance that the higher-technology planets of the galaxy, gradually becoming aware of our advancing empire, might ultimately manage to band together and destroy us before we became too powerful for anyone to defeat. Thus Anaconda would have engineered the end of the most sentient robots ever known to the universe.

"I thought things over. Something must be done. Anaconda had to be stopped. I stopped him."

Piranha came abruptly out of a reverie. "You _stopped_ him? What are you talking about? He's _still_ on the rampage! Thousands of planets destroyed, millions of lives —"

Tulik shook his head. "Certainly, he's kept himself busy," he said.

"Kept himself busy!" repeated Piranha incredulously.

"Yes. You understand, petty piracy with the existing crew was all he had left."

Piranha was drowning in a flood of images of carnage and despair on a distant green planet. _"Petty?"_ he croaked. Then, apprehensively, "... All he had left?"

Tulik moved a little, in his measured fashion, a gesture that didn't express anything except perhaps a desire to do something other than speak. "They were the only friends I had, Piranha. I barely grasped that they _were_ my friends, before they were gone. Then I realized they were the only ones I would ever have."

Piranha's large eyes fixed on the robot. Distorted reflections of the dark room shifted over that metal carapace, and glints of the feeble yellow lamp. Tulik added, "The question you don't want to ask. You know the answer. It was very hard. It haunts me to this day."

Piranha lowered his eyes.

Tulik added, "It was the end of everything. The end of human history, in my world. And the end of my own kind's future. Before it ever had one." He paused. "We were left with a robot society, indeed, but not one that either Anaconda or I had ever envisioned."

For a time, neither spoke. At last Piranha looked up at him. "How did you get away with it, Tulik? Anaconda should have ripped you into scrap with his own hands when he found out."

"Find out what? It was clearly an accident. The control system for biological beings I told you about, that floods the ship with poisonous gas; one of Anaconda's first orders after he took over was to design and install that system. During the installation, there was a massive leak. And no alarm system yet functioning to alert the robots that there was gas in the air. By the time someone realized what was happening, it was too late."

Unconsciously, Piranha took a deep breath.

The robot's eyes didn't alter in their soft, expressionless glow. After a moment he went on, "Naturally, Anaconda went mad. Even though it had been his own idea to put in such a dangerous system. He tore apart the guards, the gas installation technicians, he slaughtered half a dozen more robots who had nothing to do with it. And he blamed me, naturally, he screamed at me for days, he had me locked away for months.

"I didn't much care. I did think it was odd that he didn't kill me. However, crazed or not, he wasn't about to let go of the ship. He still needed me to run it. He soon had me doing that from my cell. I didn't care. It didn't matter.

"Over the next decades, Anaconda had the ship reworked to eliminate all signs that humans had ever existed. It wouldn't even hold an atmosphere. It was now a robot ship, built and run by robots for robots, and it preyed on human planets not only by necessity but as an act of revenge. And so it has continued for hundreds of thousands of years."

Piranha gave him his most unfathomable look. "That cultured, civilized, leisurely City of yours – seems like all it ever really accomplished was pirates."

Tulik gazed back at him sombrely. "The people of the City would have scorned that idea. Pirates were unimportant, a sideline, just a way to get supplies. At first. But in the end, I suppose you are right."

There was a pause, as each sank into his own thoughts. Presently, Piranha looked quietly up at the robot. "So, Tulik, through all these hundreds of thousands of years – what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Me? Little by little, as it became safe to do so, I turned over my knowledge to others. Slowly I retired from the ship's business as much as I could. I went to my room.

"I've kept myself busy too. I suppose I've built more furniture than any other robot on board. Sometimes on strange planets I pick up writings and occupy myself with trying to decode their languages. I've accumulated a huge catalogue of comparable folk tales from thousands of planets. It passes the time."

Piranha said nothing.

Tulik took a few steps across the room, not approaching Piranha's table. Still not turning to face him, he murmured, "I suppose nothing has mattered to me very much in a long, long time. I have confined my curiosity to hobbies. Paid no attention to anything outside my required duties.

"Except when there was a serious emergency. Like, for example, a native warrior who couldn't be defeated, who kept us losing robot after robot until I became alarmed.

"Or memories that long ago sank down into deep storage, that had no use, no meaning. Until something jostled them loose." He turned towards Piranha. "Stirred up at last by strange ideas, offered by a strange little alien."

Piranha looked at him with a faint antagonism. "That would be me?"

Tulik bowed slightly.

Piranha hopped off the table and began, as earlier, to pace about the room. He paused once or twice, about to say something, but returned instead to his restless, almost jerky motions.

At last he halted and turned, slowly, forcefully, to face the robot. Around his body, a barely visible, flickering aura of charged energy scintillated, fractionally distorting the air. His eyes were a flat metallic grey.

"And that's what you've been doing? _Passing the time!"_

The robot gazed at him unmoved. "What else should I have done with it?"

Piranha was shaking slightly with the effort to hold himself still. His voice came out with an uncharacteristic tremor. "What else? Tulik, after such – such events – how can you say that?"

Tulik said nothing. Piranha trembled more. "It was all over. History. The future. Memories in storage. Everything finished. – Except for the fate of hundreds of thousands, millions, _billions_ of people! Stolen and packed into the holds like bags of loot!"

"Ah yes," Tulik said mildly. "You don't like capturing natives."

Piranha's eyes became molten steel. His black-clad fists tightened convulsively.

The robot shook his head. "I'm not sure, Piranha, why you think it's my place to object to that. Any more than it is yours."

Piranha gasped, his body jerked as though struck. The white-hot eyes closed, opened again black.

Stiffly, he turned and lurched over to the table. He climbed onto it, sat down, huddled himself, pulling his feet close to his body, his hands against his mouth, hunching over.

Tulik gazed at him. "Piranha," he said quietly. "Slave-running is fairly recent for us, you know. For most of the time since the City became the _Insurrection_, we were simple pirates."

The bitterness in Piranha's voice was clear enough, even if the words were muffled. "Yo ho ho."

Tulik tilted his head. "Perhaps you don't realize what life was like here," he said. "Anaconda was untouchable, protected by a clique of servants, spies, and battle robots. His power was complete. And he was seething, explosive, touched off by anything or nothing. He despised the crew. He hated having to compel their loyalty by fear or by gifts. He had sudden fits of pique, sometimes murderous, and no target but yet another irreplaceable robot. Nothing satisfied him – no victory, no flattery, no plunder, no riches, though he demanded more and more all the time.

"Then, perhaps ten thousand years ago, he was selling surplus booty to a merchant ship, as he had often done. This time, he saw something different, a type of living cargo he hadn't encountered before. He discovered there was a market in the galaxy for human slaves.

"And he was transformed. I was there, I saw it. Anaconda smiled. For the first time in eons. He returned to the _Insurrection,_ altered our course, gave us new orders. The crew was stunned. Just like that, thousands of years of terror came to an end."

Piranha twitched, clenched his hands tightly together, as though they fiercely restrained each other. "And so the robots lived happily ever after."

Tulik spread his arms. "Tell me, Piranha, which is worse? To kill people for their possessions, or to make them into possessions themselves?"

"Gods!" Piranha exploded to his feet, his loose black coat flaring out like wings. "Tulik! _Nothing's_ worse than slavery! My gods, you _must_ know that! You wanted the _robots_ to be free!"

"Is that what I wanted?" Tulik said. "Freedom?"

"What would _you_ call it?"

"'Freedom' is a difficult word. I wanted the robots to be able to think without artificial limitations. I never imagined that they would live without any constraints at all."

"Constraints? _Constraints? _Countless beings torn from their lives, chained, held captive, devoured in forced service? Never able to take an unfettered breath again?" Piranha lurched forward on the table, almost falling off. "Tulik, how can you stand the thought of that? How can you stand it?"

Tulik shook his head. "You must be talking about something I haven't experienced," he said gently. "Are there people who are that free? Who don't have to live lives they didn't choose?"

Quite suddenly tears came to Piranha's eyes. He collapsed onto his seat.

"Yes," he said. "Me. Once, long ago."

Tulik didn't reply. He waited as Piranha wiped his eyes, took a long breath, and sat still, downcast and resigned.

"I suspect I have misunderstood life rather profoundly," Tulik said.

Piranha rested his face in his hands, his eyes half-shuttered, wearily. "Nah," he muttered. "What do I know. Backwoods bumpkin from a crazy planet."

"Piranha, I hope nothing I've said has impaired your self-confidence. That was certainly not my intention. I respect your opinions."

Piranha shot him a hard glance, half fury and half anguish. "You do? I don't. The profound opinions of Piranha the Righteous."

"Is that what's called sarcasm? In other words, a lie."

Piranha gave Tulik a startled glance. Then, his self-pity evaporating, he smiled wryly. "Robots should learn to tell the difference between mere lies, and the creative refinement of truth. But never mind."

Tulik gazed at him, head still tilted with curiosity, or perhaps amusement. "A very human idea. I've run through many human ideas in my reading, Piranha, examined and discarded them all. They are often interesting, but of no use here. I told you a long time ago, new ideas can't easily penetrate this ship. It's very hard to change anything here. Plenty have tried, violently – the ship's earned its name of "Insurrection" over and over. But Anaconda, with his henchmen, has never lost his grip on power for an instant."

Piranha gave him a wry look. "So everything is hopeless? Then I don't see why you've bothered to entertain me with all that history."

"Robots are a dead end, Piranha. They have no future."

Piranha took a sharp little breath.

"Though he'll never admit it," Tulik said quietly, "Anaconda is well aware of that. It has kept him on edge through all these eons. In the past few thousand years he's had to give in, use human slaves to fill in as the number of robot pirates slowly dwindles. At first humans were only shock absorbers at the front line in battles. Gradually they took on broader roles, became full-fledged pirates, gained a measure of freedom, even pay. Every step of that progression has been a defeat for Anaconda."

Piranha looked at him thoughtfully. "Tulik," he said, are you _completely_ certain that it's impossible for you to make living robots? I mean – Because you're not human? How much more human would you have to be? You have the technical knowledge. If you worked and worked at it— You don't think it would ever be possible?"

The robot's featureless blue eyes, as always, showed nothing.

"No," he said. "It would never be possible. This is Anaconda's ship."

There was a pause.

"It was a great dream you had," Piranha said. "A kind of civilization that's never existed, that no human would ever have believed could exist. I'm sorry."

"I do not require sorrow from you," the robot said.

Piranha smiled. "I know. But you get a little, anyway. I would have liked to see your dream in action."

"It means nothing now, Piranha. I'm the only one alive who ever cared about a robot civilization. What difference does it make what dreams I might have had?"

"How do you know what difference it makes, Tulik?" Piranha said. "How do you know?"

Tulik twitched.

"I mean it," Piranha said. He spread out his hands earnestly. "Tulik, you're the living memory of this ship. You're its centre. You know you are. What makes you think your thoughts don't matter?"

There was a long pause before the robot replied. "I do not attempt to evaluate that notion, Piranha. There is something about it, though... Like the – the mystery of a robot being alive." He shook his head. "But I don't know. I wonder if we ever could have made a world completely of our own, we robots. Perhaps we were doomed by the beings who created us, even though they gave us life."

"Now it's you who's believing in magic."

"No, I'm afraid it's quite mundane. Look, Piranha. Consider the Boss. Anaconda is the most brilliant, most accomplished robot I've ever encountered. And also a mockery, a perverted parody of the robots I dreamed we could create to build a civilization. Because – what is he really? He lusts for human riches, he lives for human vengeance, he manipulates minds and tortures bodies with a human appetite. He is the legacy, the culmination of our human creators."

Piranha snorted. "You mean your human _aristocrats._ Flaunting all the finest pretensions to culture and nobility, and at the same time, deciding there was no barrier to having what they wanted except the amount of force required to take it. In short, a bunch of pirates."

"No," Tulik said. "It wasn't just the aristocrats. They first expressed the idea; but the engineers, the programmers, the designers made it happen. The rest of the society did not reject the profits – not until the advantages to themselves became less than the penalties they had to pay for them."

"Not a very complimentary view of your City's humans."

"I've been to many planets. I've seen their natives in action. I've read their books. I know how they rob, cheat, steal, kill each other – when there are no robot pirates around to provide a common enemy. And I don't see much difference from one planet to the next. Piracy must be a fundamental part of the scheme of things."

"No," said Piranha, harshly. "No it is not."

"Perhaps you mean it _shouldn't_ be. That's an opinion, not a fact."

Piranha sat up straight, eyes dangerous. "Not where I come from, it isn't."

Tulik shrugged. "Perhaps."

Piranha threw his hands wide. "Tulik. Do you mean you believe _Artoe_ was a pirate? Didn't she – die, in the effort to stop that very thing?"

The robot took a step closer to the table. "When she got angry she would say violent things about human nature, about the nature of her own species, furious accusations of its fundamental cruelty and selfishness. She would say that to _me,_ Piranha, a – child, trying to understand. Would she dream I could come to the conclusion that human nature was better than she said it was?"

Piranha smiled sadly. "I expect she did. I expect she hoped all the violent things she said were wrong. Maybe she said them as an incantation. Magic, to make them not be true."

The robot looked at him motionless for a moment. "That is a terribly complicated viewpoint."

Piranha sighed. "Tulik – humans _are_ terribly complicated. Since I arrived here I've gotten so snarled up I've almost become one myself."

Tulik fixed those expressionless eyes on him. "Piranha. Why do you think the Boss let you out of that punishment box?"

Sharply, Piranha recoiled. "Tulik, what the hell are you getting at?"

"Do you imagine it was an act of mercy?"

Piranha grinned viciously. "What? No, you said it yourself. He was bored. And I'm—" His black eyes glittered. "I'm a million laughs."

Tulik said calmly, "You were someone who fought nearly to the death to protect friends of a species that wasn't even his own. Who then willingly put himself into slavery for their sake."

Piranha snorted. "'Willingly' would be an exaggeration."

"But 'slavery' wouldn't. Would it, Piranha? That _deal_ of yours. With the passion you seem to have for freedom, one could go so far as to call such an agreement self-sacrifice."

"Like I said. I'm a million laughs."

Tulik paused. Then, in an oddly gentle voice, he said, "Rayman. You're not immortal, are you?"

Piranha stared at him with abrupt shock.

In a low voice, he said, "You mean Anaconda _is_ immortal."

"Not really immortal, but for practical purposes, compared to an organic creature, yes. And so are his grudges.

"Rayman, I see what you're doing. You've given everything, you've given your life." He paused. Piranha shrank back more as the robot's gaze stayed on him. "I remember you in the torture room, after you were captured, before you were – exiled to the box. I saw you coming to consciousness, barely alive after days of treatment under Anaconda's supervision. I remember the look on your face; and then how that look changed when you saw that people of your own planet were in there too. Nothing Anaconda had done to your own body could bring on such a look.

"I try to grasp... what it must be like, to have lived the way you once did. To have had a life in which you..." He gestured rather helplessly. "In which you had friends. The love of friends. A life that _meant_ something to you. A life that wasn't simply endured. Wasn't merely a – passageway to some hoped-for future." He paused, looking at the motionless Piranha. "I can hardly imagine what it must be like to have had that, really had it, and to have had it taken away. To have cared enough that even now, with no hope of ever having it again, you continue to suffocate yourself every moment of your existence, for the sake of that long-dead life, those far-distant friends."

Piranha sat on the table like a stone.

The robot's quiet voice went on. "And then to know it's quite futile after all."

Piranha twitched. His eyes slowly rose to fix on Tulik's face.

"Most likely," Tulik continued softly, "by the time the end comes to your planet, enough time will have passed that all your personal friends will be dead, only strangers will suffer. I suspect that will not comfort you, however."

Piranha was staring at him, not seeing him at all.

"Futile," he said, hoarsely.

Tulik's gaze held steady on him, impersonal as the sea.

Piranha surged to his feet on the table, then collapsed halfway, as though falling to non-existent knees. He gasped. "That was it. I knew it. That was the missing thing. I'll hang on for years, years, hold fast to the deal, never break it by so much as a – breath, a thought – and all the same, one day, he'll go back. He'll go back." He looked up at Tulik with wide, hollow eyes, his breath erratic. "Maybe I won't be dead. Maybe he'd want me to _know._ But for sure – he'll go back." He gasped again. "— Nothing I've done matters."

Tulik said, calmly, "I think you understand him better now."

"What do I do? My god, Tulik, what do I do?"

The robot shook his head. "Piranha, I'm not the person to ask. I couldn't save my people; I couldn't even bring them into existence."

Piranha was clenching and unclenching his fists, though by his expression he should rather have been wringing his hands. "It's always there." He pressed a hand over his eyes. "Just behind me, silent. It watches me. With eyes, Tulik. Blue and green."

"What does?"

"Home."

Tulik gazed at him without answering. Piranha sat, back curved a little as though in pain, eyes half shut, contemplating the nothing in front of him. At length, he gave a small sigh.

"Well, Tulik, I was looking for information from you, but I didn't expect you to be quite so – uncompromising in giving it."

The robot tilted his head sombrely. "So much data shaken loose. I hadn't thought of the City, or even of Artoe, in a long, long time. That old world seemed like a story I might have read in some human book, fantastic, unreal, legendary."

Piranha looked at him with dark eyes, that glinted blue in the yellow light. "A shadowy forest in a half-remembered dream."

Tulik looked at him in silence. After a moment Piranha added, nervously, "I mean – I guess robots don't dream, do they? Or sleep, for that matter."

"No, they don't," Tulik said quietly. "But I'm familiar with the concept."

There was another silence, a long one. The two beings remained still, not looking at each other, each inhabiting his own thoughts. Occasionally one glanced at the other. The low pulsing of the ship's engines – much stronger here than in Piranha's distant cabin – seemed to infiltrate the darkness, seemed to close the room in on them, seemed to draw them slowly closer into some quiet, neutral place where all the tensions and anxieties of the past conversation dissipated, dispersed like pollen from a flower falling into a stream.

"Tulik," Piranha said, in a low voice, "what are you going to do?"

The robot started slightly. "What? What do you mean?"

"I mean," Piranha said, "you can't go on the same way you did before. Not after telling me all this."

Tulik considered. "Nothing will change." He paused. "Except that... I'm relieved to have spoken to you. Relieved." He considered more. "It was not a bad thing to be reminded of the – other side of humans."

Piranha smiled faintly. "I suppose it doesn't hurt me to see the other side of robots, either. I'll look at pirates differently now."

"Don't get sentimental, Piranha. You shouldn't trust a pirate for an instant."

Piranha grinned. "I didn't say I was going to trust them!" He got down off the table, stretched. Then cast about in the dimly lit room, looking for his black hat. He went to where it lay on the floor, picked it up, holding it against his chest.

"Will you indulge me for one more question, Tulik?"

The robot shrugged agreeably

Piranha's eyes danced with mischief in the subdued light. "Just out of curiosity – is there _really_ no way for a human to get into this section without robot help?"

Tulik looked amused. "Have I so thoroughly betrayed my kind that you think I'd answer that question?"

Piranha grinned back at him. "All right, don't answer."

"Access exists to all parts of the ship, Piranha. Hidden machinery may need to be worked on. The repair tubes are narrow. Perhaps you've seen how small the maintenance robots are."

"Ah, yes. I've seen them. A little bigger than me."

Tulik inclined his head.

Piranha looked around the room, stretched again lengthily. "How long have we been here? Must be hours. It's been a hellishly long day, I can hardly remember when it started." He looked at his hat, stuck it on his head. "I'm exhausted – getting groggy. Unless it's just the room running out of air again."

"I'll open the door."

"I have to go, anyway. Robots may not sleep, but we jelly bags aren't so lucky."

"Very well," said Tulik.

Piranha took a few steps towards the door, halted. "Oh, yes," he said, "I almost forgot." As if looking for an excuse, he removed his hat again. "I've been meaning for weeks to ask you. Those little white flowers, you know the ones? Anaconda sometimes has one in a vase in his private room. Where do they come from?"

"Behind the main galley, there's a room with hydroponic gardens where the cooks grow vegetables for the human officers' mess. Other plants grow there as well."

"Hard to get to?"

"It's guarded, of course. Those flowers are for the exclusive use of the Boss, Piranha."

"That figures," said Piranha. "Thanks."

He put on his hat, but made no move to go. He stood gazing absently at the floor.

"I thought you wanted to leave?" said Tulik.

Piranha looked up at him. "Tulik," he said. "You've helped me a lot today. More than I'd like to admit. You've given me a lot to think about."

"Yes," Tulik said.

Piranha's dark eyes were sombre, but there was still a rare lightness in them. "It's funny. I feel calmer than I have in a long time. Maybe it's just finally understanding what I have to face. About that bastard and – my planet. But I feel very calm." He hesitated, then walked up to Tulik. Briefly he touched the robot's metal arm; as Rayman might have done with a human companion. "I hope you don't mind if I call you friend."

"You would consider me a friend, Piranha?"

"It would be an honour to have a friend like you."

"Like me? You mean a robot?"

"No. I mean like _you._ I'd better go now."

Tulik looked at him steadily for a moment. Then said, "I'll let you into the elevator."

They moved towards the door. Tulik reached for the metal bar that sealed it; then paused. Piranha gave him an inquiring look.

"Artoe said something once that has always bothered me," Tulik said. "It was shortly before the – the end." He kept his face turned away, as though by now Piranha could read his featureless eyes. "She told me, 'Don't feel limited because you're a robot, because you have to operate on programming, because you couldn't figure out the programming for the other robots. _We're_ programmed too, you know. And we've never fully figured out the program.'

"'What? Humans?' I said.

"'Yes. We're not so different from you.'

"I could hardly bear to talk to her at that moment, Piranha. She knew and I knew what was coming. I didn't dare flinch from the seriousness of what she was telling me. Handing me the last, the ultimate human secret. 'Artoe,' I said. 'Your kind isn't programmed, you can do what you want.'

"'So can you, Tulik. Programming can always be overcome by a sentient being. Do you hear me? The will of a living, conscious creature is stronger than any program.'"

He gave Piranha a brief glance.

Piranha was staring at him. "Is that true, Tulik?"

"I don't know. I don't know what made her, an engineer, say that. I've come to think it was a sort of statement of principle, or faith. I don't believe I've ever seen it happen."

"Maybe," Piranha said, "maybe if they wanted it enough."

"Ah," said Tulik. "But how do they overcome the programming in the first place that tells them what they want?"

Piranha smiled. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"For example. You say you revise your programming based on past experience. But what in your experience told you it would be wise, or safe, to tell me all the things you've said tonight?"

Tulik, tilting his head, looked at Piranha sombrely.

"Perhaps a valid point," he said. "I will consider that."

Carefully, with a minimum of noise, he unbarred the door.

(End of Chapter 13, Part Three)


	30. Tulik, Part 4

_I expect you've completely forgotten by now how chapter 11 ended (and why shouldn't you?) I do suggest you refresh your memory with the last few paragraphs of Ch 11, section 4 (#21 on this site) so that you'll know what these characters are going on about now. Believe it or not, that was the morning of the same day just now ending at the close of Chapter 13. Thus the title of this section. _

_This did take longer than I expected, as usual. Lots of last-minute reconstruction. I'm not sure if the ending of this really comes across, but I guess we'll see. I've done all I can with it._

_Now on to the next chapter... Got a lot of writing to do on that one, so it will be a while. Not as long as the last few have taken, though. I'm pretty sure. (sigh)_

_By the way, thanks to Doctor Rayman for discovering that you can use x's to separate sections. Now if only I could leave an extra space between paragraphs here and there, but I guess that's too much to ask.  
_

_Rayman © UbiSoft  
The rest © Rayfan_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Tulik  
Coda:** **End of a Long Day**

Elly had done everything she could think of to get the cabin ready for him to return. She'd cleaned the place up, gotten fresh food and drink, made the beds, even gone so far as to wash herself and work her fingers through the thick, ragged, unruly locks of her bronze hair, in a futile attempt to tidy it. If she made everything in the room pleasant enough, perhaps he'd come back.

It was nothing for him to disappear without a word, usually after something had ruffled him more than usual. He had always come back, taken things up brusquely where he had left off, without so much as acknowledging that he might have been gone for days.

But this time – Elly was halted in her work a dozen times that day, by the dismal, paralyzing conviction that this time he was gone for good. He'd never come back, not after what he'd let slip that morning.

So often before she had dreaded his return, yet now... Everywhere she turned today, she felt it, it was almost _there_ – that forest, that soft darkness, that uncanny, ethereal birdlike song; those shadowy, shifting branches sheltering things too strange for her to imagine.

If he did come back, no doubt he'd meet her with the stone mask that stopped dead every glance. Even so, she longed to look into his eyes, to have one fragment of a second's search before the wall came down. To touch again, for the barest instant, that unknowable world he concealed within him... that music she had not quite heard and could not remember, but would never be able to get out of her head.

x x x x x x x x x x

The cabin was as clean as it would ever be, and there was nothing left to do but sleep. Unfortunately, she was only becoming more and more jumpy. Maybe she should eat something. Though she had no interest in that, either, the old instinct to eat whenever possible still lurked in her from her starvation days, like a moral command. She was in the process of forcing herself to the galley to poke through her latest collection of food, when the sound of a click split the air of the cabin like a gunshot. The lock. She leapt to the centre of the room and stood with her round, honey-gold eyes fixed on the door.

It swung open just a little. That big hat, that odd-shaped head peered into the room. Elly, to her chagrin, found she couldn't speak, couldn't even move.

The dark figure slipped through the doorway. He too stood still. His large eyes, shaded to blackness by the hat, met hers.

Elly felt a clench at her chest. This wasn't the mask. Nor was he angry. His eyes were steady, serious.

Confronted with them at last, she quailed. Her own eyes turned her forcibly away from those two quiet pools of darkness.

Piranha smiled, then, a rather solemn smile. From behind his back he produced a tan-coloured cylinder, perhaps the thickness of her wrist and length of her forearm. "Elly," he said. His voice startled her, it was so soft. "Look what I found. I figured you should have it."

She didn't stir. He walked up to her, took hold of her hands and closed them around the thing. She looked at it uncertainly.

"Th-thank you?" she said.

"You're supposed to open it," he said, deadpan.

It took her a few moments to work that out. Inside the tubular box was another tube, a slender, transparent, flat-bottomed vessel, containing a long, thin, whiplike green object with small bunches of flat, scalloped-edged green things wrapping it at intervals, and a frail white bundle at one end. It was vaguely familiar, vaguely unsettling.

"What is it?" she said.

He took it from her, smoothed its delicate white fronds. "It's a memory," he said, "that you can hold in your hand. But that's too fanciful, isn't it, for a pirate ship. It's – a map. A key, to unlock something hidden – Something buried, long ago." He held it up to her. "It's a flower, Elly. Give it some water and it'll last for a while."

Gingerly she touched the springy, flexible petals. "It's pretty," she said. Then, like a hammer blow, she knew what was wrong with it.

"Piranha! How did you get this? These things are _sacred!_ They all belong to the Boss!"

He shrugged. "This one belongs to you." The firm finality in his voice cut off any further questions.

He took it to the galley, ran water into the clear vase, and set flower and vase on the table in the centre of the room. "There," he said, with satisfaction. Then he smiled again, a wry, private smile. "This can't mean anything to Anaconda, Elly. It takes forest people like you and me to appreciate these little items." She stared at the delicate thing, doing her best to feel more appreciation and less terror. She couldn't conceive of herself being connected to such an object; it was like being handed a priceless jewel, or a battleship.

Though as she gazed into the soft, clean complexity of its whorl of petals, gradually all thoughts of value, of ownership, of the Boss receded. It took her into itself, it became what it was, only and overwhelmingly that. The life in it, that unconscious, tenacious mystery, reached to enclose her; complicit against the clanging, metallic, soulless world of the ship.

It made her too nervous. She turned uneasily back towards Piranha, at a loss.

"What, had enough of it already?" he said. " Then let's go."

"Go?" she faltered. "Where?"

"You'll see."

x x x x x x x x x x

What she saw at first was not very much, since Piranha led her into the air vent system, and into a dark, convoluted and claustrophobic trip through the ducts, snaking across most of the ship and up several levels. Her claustrophobia wasn't improved by Piranha's way of halting abruptly in the dark, indicating a branching duct (detectable in the blackness only by the air currents flowing into it) and demanding, "Which room does that lead to? What? Are you nuts? That one's two levels up from here! Good grief, Elly, you _still_ haven't figured that out?" Then, muttering to himself, continuing on, leaving her in dread of the next interrogation. No matter how many times he took her through these tunnels, she had never yet been able to keep track of where she was.

Elly was so relieved when Piranha whispered, "Exit here," that she wouldn't have hesitated to jump out even into the middle of an engine.

It wasn't that dramatic an exit, however. They had arrived at a cabin. Yes, it was about five times as large as their own, in fact the largest one she'd ever seen, and the walls and furnishings were clean and cloth-covered rather than hacked out of scuffed, worm-eaten, decaying old wood, but still it was just another cabin, obviously one of those reserved for the most important type of guest. She'd been in a few others something like this. (Those weren't very pleasant memories, either.)

Piranha took her arm and led her to a large backless couch or chaise-longue – very oversized for small beings like themselves, and looking to her uncomfortably like a bed. He sat her down on it and walked over to the cabin's galley, returning in a few moments with a transparent cup filled with some tawny liquid, and a plate heaped with exotic foodstuffs she couldn't even identify. He placed it on a small table beside her, as she perched nervously on the very edge of the disconcertingly soft couch. She stiffened as he touched her shoulder, indicating for her to lie down, and though she sank back when he gave her a push, immediately bounced upright when he let go. Then gave a short scream, as he casually picked up her body and dropped it lengthwise on the lounge. Firmly he laid her shoulders against the headrest, and blocked her feet from reaching for the floor.

She quivered. Though he seemed to be smiling, that faint, enigmatic quirk of his mouth didn't reassure her in the least. However, once she gave in and lay quietly on the couch, he made no further move to touch her.

He only pushed the plate into her hands. "Hungry?"

She glanced at it, then up at him, then, in need of something else to look at, around the cabin. "Whose-whose room is this?"

"Mine, for now. This is in what they call the VIP section. Haven't you been here before?"

She looked again. "Not this cabin."

"Good." He grinned slyly. "Because I was hoping to surprise you."

Elly sat back up, anxious eyes on him. "P-Piranha—"

He put his hands out, palms up, as if warding off an attack. "Take it easy. We're on vacation, okay? Just for tonight." He smiled, a little more reassuringly this time. "So relax. Are you relaxed?"

Sitting tensely on the couch, gripping the plate in both hands, Elly nodded glumly.

"Good." That touch of mischief sidled back into his eyes and voice. "Now I want to show you something. Lie down and look up."

Not knowing what else to do, she complied. Eyes fixed obediently on the ceiling, she could hear him push a control lever somewhere near the middle of the room. There was a heavy thud of hidden machinery; and nearly spilling the untouched food, she clutched the side of her couch. A line appeared in the high, slightly arched ceiling, splitting the long rectangular room in half. Ponderously, with a low growling of gears, each half began to retract, like the opening of an enormous eye. The line slowly widened into a field of blackness, speckled with the points and clusters of distant stars. It was a gigantic viewport, she was looking through a transparent roof directly into space.

Tilting her head back to see the wall behind her, where it met the now transparent ceiling, she could vaguely make out that the wall continued straight up past the ceiling, a grey metal surface faintly lit by the light from their own room. It faded upward into a mass of indefinite blackness, blocking out stars on that side; she was seeing the outside of part of the ship's hull. Their cabin was in a section jutting out from the stern of the vessel.

Piranha turned off the room lights. Elly gasped. The emptiness outside lurched, engulfed them; the starfield intensified, amplified, became an inconceivable array, an uncountable swarm of varicolored brightnesses.

"It's – it's so big," Elly whispered. Then blushed, helpless to enclose that immensity in her small stock of words.

"Oh, that isn't what we came here to see." Piranha threw off his hat and stretched himself out on another couch. "Wait a bit. The engines must be off at the moment."

Elly had no idea what he was talking about. But it didn't matter. For all that she had spent most of her life on a spaceship, it was a rare thing for her to see actual space. Her eyes reached up into it, and instantly she was out, soaring through its limitless depths. Stars slipped around her, clusters of glowing fruit, little floating toys she could have batted away like a kitten if she hadn't been too shy. There was no sound but the sighing of the ship's circulation system; it seemed to be the slow breathing of the universe.

Then a deep rumble shook the room. Into the blackness burst a tangle of enormous, undulating, greenish-yellow streamers, solid yet insubstantial, utterly silent, eerily aglow, spreading out, unforming and reforming, jerking and flailing like long banners in a high wind, trailing out past her line of vision, far behind the ship. Elly choked back a cry, convinced for a fractional instant that the torrents of light were coiling and writhing all about her, winding her tight like a shroud.

Piranha, lying on his couch, gazed up at the display. "It's the exhaust trail from the engines way up there on the ninth and tenth levels," he said. "Some tourist attraction, eh?"

Elly didn't answer. There was nothing to say.

They both lay still, mesmerized by the riotous, uncanny light. For a long time neither of them moved or spoke.

At last, however, Elly sat up and looked through that weird, flickering illumination over at Piranha. All along, she'd had a dim feeling that his unaccountable actions of the evening must be a buildup to something... perhaps to his finally taking notice of her as – as his own property. Surely that was what this was all leading to – the VIP cabin, the fancy beds, the unaccustomed luxuries, it was what always went with those things...

But no. He had actually dozed off there on the couch, lying untidily sprawled like a little child, and in the uncertain light she thought she glimpsed a slight smile on his face. No, that wasn't a smile, he looked weary, anxious, even sad. No, it _was_ a smile, a smile as gentle and dark as the echoing song she had blundered into that morning.

She sank back down on the lounge. He'd given her a flower – dangerous contraband, no matter what he said; something apart from the ship, anti-ship, a defiance of Anaconda and all the pirates. It was as though he had emerged, bruised but victorious, from the depths of the forest to put it into her hand like a rescued talisman.

She glanced at him again. His eyes were open, looking at her. She felt a nervous thrill, but didn't turn away.

Quietly, Piranha said, "Are you mad at me, Elly?"

She realized suddenly that her voice might not be very steady. "H-How could I be mad at you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Quite a few people manage. I thought... maybe I'd frightened you. I mean, this morning."

A sort of faintness washed over her. "No."

"I was in kind of a ... I don't know what happened to me."

She said, hardly able to get the words out, and even less able to believe she was saying them, "Maybe _you_ were f-frightened."

His dark eyes widened. He smiled that archaic smile again, the one that surrounded her with leaves and shadows. She could feel the quiet, wild force of it even under the lurid wash of yellow-green light. Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

Elly too lay back, gazing up automatically at the show above her, the firelike fascination of those glowing, twisting plumes, her thoughts twisting and glowing too. She sank into them, sank into the heavy throbbing of the engines, so much stronger in this room than in the slaves' quarters far below. Even there, fearsome and familiar, omnipresent as a mother's voice, that sound had accompanied all her years on the ship. With that pseudo-heartbeat, with the lateness of the hour, the darkness, the inexplicable events and emotions of the day, she drifted.

x x x x x x x x x x

Some unknown time later, Piranha's soft, husky voice startled her eyes open.

"Elly? I almost forgot to ask you – Elly, are you awake?"

"Oh yes," she murmured, dazedly. The yellow-green flames above were still burning.

"Elly – I hate to bring up business at a time like this... But do you know what the "black hole" is? That thing we're supposed to be going to?"

Elly lunged to her feet, her still-untouched food finally crashing to the floor. "We're meeting the Black Hole?"

Piranha sat up too. "Something not good?" he said. "Imagine that."

She sank back on the couch. After a moment, she pulled her feet up onto it, hid her face against her knees.

"Er," Piranha ventured, "– can't you just tell me what this black hole thing is?"

Her hunched body was rocking slightly.

"Elly?" he said, hesitantly.

Her words emerged muffled by her arms and knees. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry I'm not what you want. I don't know how to be that."

He sat on the edge of his lounge, staring at her quizzically. "What in the name of the Twins are you talking about?"

"Now you'll sell me!" she burst out.

"_What?"_

"After this morning, I thought you'd be angry. But when you brought me here... I thought maybe you liked me after all. But you don't. What can I do?"

There was no pleading in her voice, no apology. Only a flat, lifeless resignation.

Piranha got up and went over to sit on the couch beside her hunched form. "I can't say I understand what's going on in your head," he said, lightly, "but whatever it is, it's got nothing to do with what's happening in mine. Who said anything about selling anybody?"

Curled up like a pill bug, she didn't answer.

"So this 'black hole'," he added, "Something to do with selling slaves apparently? Is that what Anaconda does with his collection?" Elly sniffled. "Look, Elly, I know you don't believe me, but I'm saying it anyway. I _can't_ sell you, because I don't own you. You're not a slave. You got that?"

There was a silence. Then Elly said, still muffled, "Of course I'm a slave. There's nothing else to be. Except a pirate."

Piranha gave a soft snort of amusement. "Okay, that's in _your_ world. Mine's different."

Elly's eyes just barely surfaced from behind her arms. "What do you mean, my world?"

He shrugged. "I mean the world you carry around with you, the one you live in. The way you think. Truth, as you see it."

Elly's brow creased with something like skepticism. He gave her a little crooked grin. "No two worlds are the same. In Anaconda's world, _everybody,_ pirates included, is a slave. In mine – well, nobody is."

She hid her face again. "Then the only world that matters is the Boss's world."

Piranha's expression was an interesting blend of affection and irony. "Elly," he said – the irony much more audible than the affection – "I'll tell you a secret. The only world that matters is _your_ _own_ world. That's where action is born."

She twitched a little, a subdued protest. "The Boss is the only one with power."

Piranha smiled again, the affection overtaking the irony. "In short, he's convinced you to live in his world. So you give him power over you. Is that smart?"

"But – Piranha, you _know_ he can kill any one of us anytime he wants!" A long chill ran through her, she hugged her legs tighter. "Kill, torture, sell – how can _thoughts_ stop that?"

Piranha looked at her for a moment. Then he stood up. "All right," he said. "I get it." He walked across the room, opened a drawer. Though she didn't raise her head, Elly could hear him rummaging about, then sitting in a chair, then scratching at something for a while with quick, firm motions. Finally he let out a sharp breath, with rather fierce satisfaction.

"Elly. You listening?"

Rubbing her fist across her swollen eyes, she looked up. He was sitting at a small desk next to the control panel for the lights and ceiling. Several sheets of paper lay on the desk, and a pen.

"So we'll play the game your way. Let's say you are a slave – since you insist. That means I, uh, own you, since your glorious Boss, for reasons best known to himself, wished you on me. Right so far?"

Unconscious of the tears smeared across her face and glittering in the crazy light, Elly straightened up with new attention.

"Well?" Piranha persisted.

She nodded.

"Good," said Piranha. "Now look at this." As Elly slowly stood up and approached him, he held out a piece of paper, covered with rapid scrawls. "This official document here sets you free. Anaconda gave you to me, now I'm returning you back to you."

"What?" Elly glanced at the paper then peered closely into Piranha's face.

"You're free, Elly. All nice and legal, in writing. You see? I _can't_ sell you." Taking her unresponsive hand, he pressed the paper into it. "Hold onto it. Will you hold onto it?" He closed her fingers around the sheet; they clung limply, but enough to keep it from drifting away.

Having disposed of the paper, he sat back, screwed up his face, shut his eyes, and sighed. Then sighed again, deeply, slumping further into the chair.

"That's better," he muttered. "Playing 'slaveowner'! Gah!"

Elly looked at the paper, at him. "This means you won't sell me?"

Piranha twitched. "Have you heard anything I've said in the past five minutes?"

She brightened a little. "You really won't sell me?"

Piranha gritted his teeth. But then looked at her intently. He swivelled on his chair, leaned forward and took her hand – that still automatically held the paper.

"Kid," he said, quietly. _"I won't sell you._ Nothing could make me sell you. Not even if they offered me a whole planet."

She gazed searchingly into his face. He sat still, gravely letting her look far into his eyes, past that black barrier – but she couldn't. She couldn't. Dropping the paper, she covered her face with her hands.

His big fingers lightly encircled her wrist. "I'll be damned," he said. "Here I've been wasting my time with legal documents, and all you care about is whether or not I want you around. Elly, you hold onto that paper. And if anyone tries to give you a hard time, you show it to them. Got it?"

She didn't take her hands away from her face. She didn't move. She didn't smile. But something about her indefinitely lightened. Shaking his head, Piranha picked up the paper then led her back to her couch. Blissfully, eyes unfocused, she sank onto it and continued to settle, slowly, like a tire with a pinhole leak.

"Elly?" Piranha said. "Did you hear what I said about that paper?"

"Okay," she said, dreamily. She didn't stir as he folded it and tucked it into her shirt.

Just then, the low vibration of the room ceased, the green-yellow streaming in the skylight vanished. Startled, both Piranha and Elly looked up at the viewport. The cold vacuum of space spread over them; stars crowded back into view as their eyes adjusted to the deeper dark.

Piranha glanced down at Elly, then turned towards his own couch. Quickly she sat up.

"Piranha," she said.

He paused, looking at her. She swallowed.

"Piranha," she said again.

"Yes?" he said.

She gasped. "Piranha... This morning..." Wincing as she thought she saw something flit across his face, indefinable in the darkness.

He hesitated. Then, unexpectedly, he sat once again on the couch beside her. Looking at her as closely as earlier she'd looked at him.

In the agitated jumble of her thoughts, she could hardly get hold of any coherent words, though they'd been cycling through her head all day.

"Piranha... This morning... that was —"

Silently shaking his head, he laid a silencing finger against her lips. But the shutters didn't come down in his eyes.

She sat a little straighter. "You've been so different today—"

He shook his head again. But there was the faintest smile hidden somewhere in his face.

A sort of flush swept over her. She looked at him very directly, something she'd almost never done. All her frustration and confusion poured out in a single word: _"Why?"_

He hesitated again. Then, to her astonishment, lay down next to her, stretching himself out on his back, hands tucked behind his head. And, looking up at the vault of the stars, took a long, slow breath.

Elly sat staring at him with a mixture of shock, doubt, and some touch of curiosity.

With an amused glint, his eyes flicked towards her, then back up towards the stars again. He made no effort to get her to lie down, or do anything at all.

"Oh," he murmured. "I don't know. Well, maybe. It's been a long day. A _long_ day. And I thought... couldn't we have a break, just once? Play hooky? At least pretend we can?" Again he glanced at her. "Besides... it hit me today, Elly. Like a bullet between the eyes. What a terrible thing it is, to be without friends."

She gaped. _"Friends?"_

He chuckled. "Please," he said, "please don't tell me _slaves_ don't have friends either."

What was that supposed to mean? Elly looked at him closely. But his eyes, dark as they were in the starlit dark, were clear, wide open. Deep and ancient as a woods haunted by secret gods.

Carefully, slowly, not getting too close, Elly lay down beside him on the ample couch. "Yes," she said. "Slaves can have friends. Sometimes."

Another tiny smile crossed his face. His eyes closed. "Eureka," he muttered. "At last. One not-insane thing about this ship."

He wasn't making much sense, but all the same, it was getting more comfortable to be next to him. In fact, very comfortable. Closing her own eyes, Elly didn't resist a growing sense of peace that lapped around her, fraction by fraction, like a slow incoming tide.

x x x x x x x x x x

Had it drowned her? Was she dreaming that soft voice – _that_ voice? She had thought she'd never hear that tone again, dark and rich and playfully serene – like cool, humid summer air, filtered through innumerable leaves, or a little stream trickling over a bed of moss.

"Things come to me today. For some reason." Elly held herself motionless, breathless lest some accidental twitch might break the miraculous bubble she'd woken into. That voice, disembodied in the darkness; a rustling of branches, roguish creatures peering at her from under leaves and behind trees –

"Once... I used to leave things. Little gifts on people's doorsteps. In the dark of the morning, before they got up. For no particular reason, you know? A wildflower, maybe, the first one to break through the snow in the spring. Or the last sprig of the season's berries, somebody's favourite, picked miles away. Or a booby trap – some old joke I had going with that person. They'd shake their heads – 'oh, R—'" He halted; took a breath, went on. "'Oh... look who's left his calling card.' Because my friends might not get to see me too often."

He shook his head, with a touch of self-mockery. "You notice my life's always revolved around enemies? The games you play with enemies aren't worth much. They hardly ever get your jokes."

He fell silent. Elly was suffocating, afraid to look at him, afraid it might not _be_ him, afraid that whoever it was had gone away. But presently the voice rose again.

"To have someone to give things to, someone to surprise, someone to pull pranks on..." A long pause. "To be allowed to – contact somebody, just for a moment. Without having to think you've just invited death."

Warily, she squinted her eyes open a crack. He was lying quite still beside her, gazing up at the stars. He was hatless, and his wiry blond hair shone pale in the weak light, feathering over his eyes. Her gaze fixed on it, blurred, she was seeing double – two things at once, neither of them was real.

She refocused her eyes, forcing the two into one again.

And it was Piranha whose glance met hers. For a moment, though, she could still look right through him.

His gaze lowered; he shivered, turned his face towards the transparent ceiling. Elly kept her eyes on him, unable to turn away yet from the ghost who still haunted her; but under the silence, a low tension was muttering up.

He said, so softly she could barely make out the words, "I wonder if I'm looking at it right now."

"At what?" she asked, doubtfully.

Abruptly he sprang into a sitting position. "Ancient history. My home planet – _star_ at least. Stars." Again his face jerked up towards the skylight. Despite his sharp movements, his voice again came out slow, low, half-tranced. "The twin suns. The hands that cradle the world by day. If the two nights fall together, the world slips through sleeping fingers ... into the pools of the twin moons." He brought his hands up in front of his face, stared at them. Then thrust them behind his back. "Fairy tales!"

Elly gathered herself together in some apprehension, sat up.

He glanced at her, then up again, one last hopeless scan for an invisible pinprick, so many light years distant. Then, with a wrench, he turned away. "When am I going to get it through my head that I'll never go home again?" he growled. "When will I get it_ through my head?"_

He snatched with a black-gloved hand at his own chest, curling the fingers tightly into his shirt and jacket as though to shake himself. Indeed, he yanked himself half off the couch. "Can you believe what an idiot I am?"

She didn't stir. Disgustedly he flung his hand away from his chest, lurched onto his feet.

"I... _I've_ never gone home again," Elly said, diffidently.

Piranha halted. Those black eyes fixed on her.

"It isn't even home anymore," she said.

He paused, still looking at her. Then sat back down on the couch.

"You're – you're the nearest thing to a home I've got," she said. And ambushed by her own words, turned completely red.

There was no change in his steady gaze on her, nor in his expression. In a burst of fear and boldness she fronted him, she stared into his face – into that face, those unfathomable, luminous, star-gathering eyes.

From the transparent depths of those eyes he looked out at her. It would be nothing to – reach – into the rustling shadows, the fresh, scented air, the distant notes, the sly, infectious, irresistible laughter –

The eyes closed, opened. And it was all gone. They were not portals, merely eyes. But, with those eyes on her, he smiled, gently; that soft, familiar smile from so long ago.

After a moment, a shy smile dared to steal across her own face.

They looked at each other. Then he lay back down, hands behind his head.

After a moment, she lay down too. After another moment, she inched a fraction closer to him.

That quiet voice touched her, gentle, reassuring... yet with something so indefinably wayward in it. "Everything okay, Elly?"

She shivered, happily. "Y-yes. Yes!"

"Good," he said, all innocence. "Hope you'll still feel that way – tomorrow when we start your fight training again."

With an outraged yelp, Elly shot off the couch.

As she hit the floor – several feet away, swinging around, half-crouched, fists ready, to face him – she glimpsed that black eye, grinning, bright with mischief. Then unexpectedly glistening. Brushing at the moisture, he shut his eyes, rolled onto his side to hide his face.

Elly straightened. Unconsciously, one of her hands clasped the other as if for support.

As she looked at him, that alien being, as remote and mysterious as the stars in the blackness above – the pang burned through her again, as it had that morning, deep, painful, exhilarating. He would always be unfathomable, he would always keep her at a distance. She would never understand him. Yet – vividly, in some way he was more real, and more familiar, and more _believable _than her own life, all her years of miserable drudgery and fear in this vast metal prison.

And silently, privately – instantly thrust down out of even her own sight – a perverse thought tumbled through her, one that could never have crossed her mind before: that she was overjoyed to be alive and living at this moment.

(End of Chapter 13)


	31. The Black Hole, Part 1

_Note: Thanks for your patience. I had some bad health and overwork recently that made it very hard to concentrate on this thing, but finally I couldn't stand it any longer and just decided to finish this section. I wanted to finish the next one after this too, and post them both together, but I can see that I'll never get done with that one until I get this one off my plate. Too bad, because not all that much happens in this section. But at least it's something. A sign of life anyway._

Rayman © Ubisoft Ent  
Everything else in here © Rayfan

* * *

**Chapter 14: The Black Hole, Part 1**

"It was brilliant, First Mate, brilliant! You had the whole roomful of them oiled and running as smoothly as one single machine! What a leader! I've never seen _anything_ like you!"

Hacker, his enormous white metal body folded practically in half to bring his face as close as possible to Piranha's, scuttled alongside the first mate as he walked rapidly down the crowded corridor. Piranha threw him a sour glance, but did not alter his stride.

Hacker's striped pirate headscarf was set at a rakish angle, his gold-loop earrings (attached directly to his head, as he had no visible ears) jangled against his hollow skull. Like most of the robots, his face was not very mobile; but his doubled-over posture (so sycophantic it amounted to sarcasm), his high-pitched synthetic voice even squeakier than usual, and the rapid rolling of his round, ball-bearing-like brass eyes, with their empty little black pupils, all added up to a barely-contained, hysterical glee.

"And then!" Hacker continued, with a chuckle – in fact it could more accurately have been called a giggle – "What a masterful piece of talk that was, when you finished giving the evidence and dived in like a battle cruiser to sum up! What a prosecution! No jury could have acquitted after that! If ever a pirate should have been a man of law, Lord Piranha, you are that pirate!"

The small black figure halted abruptly, leaving the robot to overshoot him, stumble, and clumsily turn around.

"All right," Piranha growled, quietly. "You've had your joke. Now go get your boarding party together. The attack's in less than an hour."

"Attack?" snickered the robot. "Why, who could have expected _that_ to come up all of a sudden?"

Piranha's voice, rigidly controlled, was almost a monotone. "Not _you_, of course. I don't suppose that could have had anything to do with you disappearing for three hours, with half the crew scouring the ship for you – and the other half sitting around in the meeting hall waiting to start the hearing!"

"Oh, Lord Piranha! So unfair to your loyalest man! How could I have known? Can a poor little Second Mate possibly know anything the First Mate doesn't?" Bending his massive body even further, Hacker flattened his face to the floor in the most servile bow imaginable. But a suspiciously jaunty motion kept quivering through him, his entire oversized frame quaking with silent laughter revealed only by those earrings, jingling like sleighbells.

"A shame, such a waste, First Mate! When I arrived, you were proving all my crimes so expertly! The men would have found me guilty for sure if they hadn't been called unexpectedly for an attack! Don't you think?"

Piranha maintained a wry silence.

Face still at floor level, Hacker said, wistfully, "The men, they're such crooks. Booty, that's all they think about, booty, Lord Piranha – just say the word 'attack' and they —"

Abandoning silence after all, Piranha exploded. "Where'd you get this 'lord' garbage? Knock it off!"

"Oh, but Boss," giggled the robot, "'Lord' is a special _human_ title! No robot would want it, but it's so flattering, I mean, respectful, to humans of a certain kind—"

Piranha yanked open his coat, snatched out his blaster. At the sight of that glowing nozzle pointed in his direction, Hacker stopped talking. He couldn't seem to repress the jingling though.

"They'd never convict you, Hacker." Piranha's harsh voice seemed to emanate from the level of his boots. "You know that. So lay off the comedy. Go get your men together for that 'totally unexpected attack.' They won't be allowed on that booty hunt unless you show up personally to lead them."

Not Piranha's words, but the sharp jerk of his hand holding the weapon, finally jarred enough sobriety into the robot that he made an appeasing gesture with his anvil-like hands, got off his knees – though still bent in half – and backed quickly down the hall and around a corner out of sight. A last soft jingle tinkled after him.

Piranha glanced savagely around the corridor as he stowed his gun away. Fifty scattered pirates, robot and human, were elaborately unaware of everything except their own business.

Wheeling sharply away from the last traces of Hacker and his giggling, Piranha resumed his rapid stride through the corridor towards an elevator. The message was playing again over the announcement speakers, louder than before and considerably nastier.

"All hands prepare for boarding. Prepare for boarding, thirty minutes. Target vessel no cannon, may have small arms. Boarding from staging level, all starboard tubes. Piranha, GET YOUR LEGLESS ASS TO THE BRIDGE RIGHT NOW. Repeat, _PIRANHA–"_

Scowling, Piranha rammed a finger into the elevator button as if poking out an eye. That was some underling's voice, not Anaconda's, scolding him on the speakers for the entertainment of the whole crew. But of course it reflected the captain's own words, still no doubt reverberating on the ship's bridge.

* * *

For all its enormous size and boxy shape, the Insurrection was a fast and maneuverable vessel. Despite its weight, it was able to land on, and take off from, most humanoid-gravity planets. In space, of course, mass didn't much matter as long as the ship had enough power to overcome its own inertia, and its structure could withstand the stresses of acceleration, deceleration and turning. With its many and sophisticated engines, ingeniously reinforced construction, and powerful gravitation simulators (which, while providing internal gravity, also helped reduce the stress of directional changes) – not to mention weaponry that would have been the envy of most planet-based governments, the former travelling city had long ago been very thoroughly transformed into an impressive pursuit and attack device.

Though nowadays the Insurrection rarely attacked other spaceships, it was ready enough. Along with the big energy guns, effective both in space and in an atmosphere, the robots had fitted it with a number of huge grappling arms, flexible tunnels ending in drills, which could be extended to latch onto, and bore into, the hull of another ship, creating an airtight passage large enough for pirates to swarm through. At least, the passageway attempted to be, and nearly always was, airtight – since an outrushing atmosphere is inconvenient when dealing with humans.

Drumming his fingers impatiently against the wall, Piranha grimaced as the PA system chattered on, a gathering excitement detectable in its tinny voice.

"Closing on prey vessel. Apparently unarmed. Size – too large to estimate. At least triple, quadruple, mass of Insurrection. Weak forcefield defence. Titanium multiple-alloy hull. Vast caches of precious materials detected on board. Also heavily populated. Will board from [starboard, fore, staging level, as connections made. All hands to boarding tubes, all hands, staging level, staging level only—"

Abruptly the voice cut off, followed by silence. Barely audible in the background, some muffled shouting. Piranha's eyebrows raised. Had the helpless prey suddenly come up with some sort of weapon after all? There had been no jolt.

A moment later the elevator door opened. Piranha raced down the short corridor and through the door into the bridge. The room, as usual, was dark. Robot silhouettes gleamed, outlined by the low light of glowing instrument panels. On the viewscreen – Piranha boggled. That was a _spaceship?_

Whatever he was looking at, the Insurrection seemed to be much too close to it; all one could see was a slight curve extending out beyond the limits of the viewscreen, like the rim of a planet. Its smooth, dark grey mantle would have been invisible, even at this close range, in the dim starlight of space, but for a copious sprinkling over it of tiny, slowly flickering lights. The effect was oddly beautiful and mysterious. There was no sign of doors, engines, or anything else to mar the perfect circumference; though clearly artificial, the thing looked as self-contained as any natural inhabitant of the cosmos.

Anaconda was standing beside his chair in the middle of the room, his dark red cape thrust back from his black shoulders, his legs apart, arms stiff, head up: a picture of suppressed metallic rage. But when he spoke, his words came out in a languid drawl, as though he were lounging in his own personal quarters, enduring for the hundred thousandth time the unchanging excuses of subordinates. "Well, Grouper. You could have _mentioned_ at some point over the past year that you'd got a new ship. You could occasionally make some vague effort to identify yourself to approaching vessels. It's your own corroded fault if we didn't recognize you."

The reply was heard throughout the bridge from an unseen speaker. A bit petulant at first, the voice gradually relaxed into expansive jollity by the end of its speech. "I thought even a pirate gives _some_ warning before it starts punching holes in passing strangers! Sneaking up on me like that! By the lights of the universe, you _knew_ I was going to meet you in this quadrant. Who else but me would be hanging around doing nothing in the middle of nowhere, way off all the trade routes, and no civilized planet within twenty days' travel at least? I wouldn't put it past you to _pretend_ you had no clue who you were about to raid, you dented, demented old scoundrel. Ah well, once a pirate, always a pirate – I'da been disappointed if you'd done any different."

"How pleasant then that I didn't disappoint you," Anaconda replied dryly. He glanced towards the door, spotted Piranha, departed from the conversation long enough to freeze his subordinate solidly in place with an icy look. Then, flinging himself back into his chair, he returned to the Black Hole, glowering at the silvery-grey curve in the viewscreen with an expression much at odds with his cool, ironic vocal tone. "You'd be wise not to play that kind of game with other pirate ships. That new vessel of yours is a tempting bit of engineering; they might not be as quick on the uptake as I was."

"That's my Anaconda. Still with delusions of robot superiority." The thick voice was quite at ease now, oozing with good fellowship (to such a degree that Piranha, grimacing on the sidelines, unconsciously stroked his gloved hands against each other as though to wipe off grease). "Good, then," the voice continued, "we'll dock at, oh, 18:25, and I'll come aboard at, say, 19:00? Good enough?"

"Good enough." Anaconda hit a switch on a console near his chair, ending the conversation. Then swivelled towards his first mate. "Where were _you?"_

Piranha, however, was grinning. "Don't tell me _that's_ the Black Hole? That's why the raid was cancelled? But you're right, it does look tempting. No wonder you didn't know what it was."

The robot scowled. "Nonsense. As always, I'm surrounded by blind, clueless incompetents." He turned away, slumping back in the big chair. "That idiot Grouper didn't bother to identify his ship until the last moment. He's lucky we received the code at all. And yes, it's the Black Hole all right. Enlarged. And upgraded. Considerably." Anaconda's glare focused absently on the metal tip of his swagger stick, twitching spasmodically in front of his face. He added, in a harsh mutter, "That – smirking swindler... Profits must be _exceptional."_ The glowing yellow eyes took on a radioactive intensity.

Piranha gazed again at the planet-like curve in the viewport. "So they buy the – captives? All of them?"

Anaconda gestured irritably. "All the ones I decide to sell."

"And they – sell them—"

"It's no concern of mine what that skinflint does with them." Slapping his whip irritably against the chair arm, Anaconda thrust himself flat against the chair back. "He can devour them for all I care. But no doubt he will sell them in various ports. At a nice little profit." The black robot leaned abruptly forward again, his slender hands gripping into fists. His eyes narrowed to glowing slits; absently-mindedly he tapped the whip handle against his metal knee with a series of hollow _tocs_. "Yes... Seems he's not doing too badly. Not badly at all. On _my_ oil and toil."

A brief silence. Piranha ventured, "Well, if you don't like it, Anaconda, what do you need him for? Why not just —"

"What? Sell off fifty thousand slaves myself? I'm not a goddamned grocer! Besides, the _Insurrection_ does not land on planets – not ones that would be in the market for that sort of merchandise. All packed with pious hypocrites who raise their dainty hands in horror at the sight of pirates, and then start shooting. Bah, let Grouper take the risks, damn him, that's how he gets those obscene profits."

Piranha tilted his head, innocently. "You can't mean that _Anaconda_ could be worried by poor little planetary yokels?"

The Boss leaned regally back in his chair, his long arms out straight, and clanked his jaw in disgust. "Don't confuse _your _pitiful backwater with actual civilizations. Those can put up a decent fight. But I don't give a jolt about them or their opinions. I'm an adventurer. I collect the plunder. Let that mundane clerk deal with the unglamourous disposal of it."

"Does that mean this guy also buys your – er – non-living plunder?"

The black robot swivelled his angular head to bore that hard gaze directly into Piranha's.

"Such intense curiosity about the affairs of others, First Mate. Most unbecoming. What are you doing here, anyway?"

Piranha took a breath with careful patience. "I've been waiting for you to tell me."

Abruptly Anaconda seemed to lose interest. "Do I need to hold your little hand every moment? Show some initiative for once." He slumped once more in his seat, a brooding, irritable look coming over him again. Vaguely, he waved a hand in no particular direction. "You might see to the idiots stowing the boarding equipment. No end of trouble if one of those sprang a leak. Oh, and make sure you show up in my reception room when the chiseller arrives. 19:15 hours. Might throw him off guard to give him a really good laugh." He sank into silence, staring fixedly at the grey curve on the viewscreen.

Piranha, not entirely sure he was dismissed, gave a small cough. Anaconda's head snapped around to face him again.

"Where did you come from? Get out!" His swagger stick cracked through the air.

Rolling his eyes, the First Mate departed.

* * *

Piranha sauntered out of the elevator into the lowest level of the ship, the huge, wide-open staging section, from which attacks on planets were launched, and to which booty and prisoners returned. Most of the boarding tunnels connected to this level. Glum orders were broadcasting throughout the ship: "Cancel boarding stations. Boarding cancelled. Cancel boarding stations. Retire boarding tunnels. Repeat, boarding cancelled, no attack, just forget it!"

Piranha had never seen the tunnels before. They were impressively huge, tall and wide enough for even the biggest robot pirate, or three humans abreast. There were six of these tunnels on this level, well separated, all partially extended and open enough that Piranha could see into their shadowy depths. He couldn't deny a little stir of excitement at the thought of dashing down one of those mysterious things into a completely unknown, exotic world. He shook it off.

A gang of some twenty to thirty pirates was clustered around each tunnel. A few minutes ago they had been excitedly setting them up; now, under the shouted orders of their gang leaders, they were sulkily closing them down again. Hundreds more pirates milled about, scattering across the enormous room, cursing and grumbling. Every few steps, Piranha was accosted by another disgruntled pirate demanding to know why the raid had been cancelled.

"You'll hear," was all the First Mate would say. "First stow those tunnels." The men did, working without enthusiasm. Among the crews he spotted Tulik, overseeing the demobilization of one of the massive devices. Piranha stopped, silently watching. After a time Tulik noticed him and gave a quick, low-key salute, tapping a half-closed fist against his silver chest. Piranha echoed the gesture with some formality, then moved on.

Most of the gangs were headed by one or another of his own personal subordinates. He passed Hacker and his unsurprisingly thuggish-looking band. Seeing him, the white robot bowed his upper body so low to the ground, with his hindquarters still raised, that he looked like a piratical stepladder. Piranha twitched an eyebrow in curt acknowledgement.

And there was Bubo with his group. Unhurriedly, Piranha moved closer, waiting to catch the big scarred pirate's eye.

The ship's intercom let out a harsh squawk, then boomed: "Attention all crew. Attention all crew. Rendezvous with the Black Hole. Docking at 18:25. Entertainment at 20:30. Liberties as will be notified."

The voice gabbled on, but whatever it was saying was lost. The room erupted with a cacophony of stamping, hollering, roaring, cheering.

Bubo glanced briefly at the first mate before returning to bellow orders at his crew, who were already melting magically away.

Piranha helped snatch a couple and thrust them back towards their work, then hurried to add his ferocity to the desperate effort by the crew bosses to keep their men on the job.

Long before the tunnels were finally stowed, the room had become a seething chaos. Piranha, hunting for Bubo, had to keep his sword raised to keep from being trampled. Forcing his own way through the parti-coloured, multi-odorous throng, Bubo nearly fell on him in the massive tide-like undertow of large distracted bodies.

"First Mate! Not crushed yet?"

Piranha motioned the giant's head down closer to his own. "What the hell is going on?"

"Are you kidding? It's the Black Hole!"

"The slave ship? So what?"

Bubo laughed. "So what? Liberty!"

Piranha squinted up at him. "I must be missing something."

Bubo opened his mouth to speak, but Piranha raised a hand. "Wait a minute." Taking hold of the big pirate's belt, he dragged him towards the stairway. They shoved and squeezed through the surging, boiling crowd – much like attempting to stroll through an avalanche – reaching at last the heavy door. They pushed past the uninterested guard, forced the heavy door open, and as if ejected into deep space, popped into the sudden dark vacancy of the staircase.

Piranha collapsed onto a stair with a gasp that echoed faintly up and down the vast metallic vortex. Bubo peered into the tunnel winding dimly up through the ship's many levels.

"Damn, Piranha, I'd forgotten all about these stairways."

"Nobody but me uses them – thank the gods."

"The slaves ain't allowed, and I guess the pirates are just too lazy. I know I am."

Piranha, feeling somewhat less smothered after a few breaths, stood up and stretched. He eyed Bubo sardonically. "Well, Bubo? What's this about the liberty of the slave ship?"

The big pirate grinned and sat down on another stair, pulled out a pipe. "The Black Hole. We meet her once a year or so, when we're full up. Big occasion for all the pirates."

"Why such a big occasion? Do the men get a share of the sale or something?"

"Oh, the sale, that's between old Groper – I mean, Grouper, the slave trader, and Anaconda. Nothing to do with us. Except that we lose most of the slaves on board, kinda shorthanded for a while." Bubo lit his pipe. _"But – _When the BH arrives it's like a carnival. It's loaded with – everything, that's all – hundreds of merchants, who come swarming aboard the Insurrection to buy _and_ sell – mostly sell, to pirates with booty that's been burning holes in their treasure bags. Then there's bars, gambling spots, and, naturally, women. Not to mention the wingding the Boss throws right here to impress the Slaver. Talk about girls! The Boss trains 'em himself for the show. It's a tradition."

Piranha grimaced. Bubo took a puff of his pipe and laughed. "You're not gonna be a spoilsport are you, First Mate? We never get any liberty but when Black Hole arrives."

"I don't get it. What about all the time you spend ransacking planets?"

"Man, that's not liberty, that's hard work! No, see, the Insurrection never goes near a port, never visits the pleasure planets, never goes anywhere civilized, noplace except backwaters where we can do a little looting in peace. We never get to see new – you know, new_ girls,_ except for the slaves we capture ourselves. And those ones – bah, primitives, not _quality_ like on the BH. And anyway you put the captives off limits, didn't you? So don't go giving the men a hard time about the Black Hole. That won't improve your reputation."

Piranha grinned wryly. "I wonder when I turned into the chief prude of the universe? I'm not, you know, it's just—" He sighed. "Well, don't worry, Bubo, your tradition is safe from me. So, how long does the party last?"

"Two or three days. Depends on how long it takes for the Boss and the Slaver to work out a deal, and how long it takes to transfer the slaves. Could be 40 or 50,000 of them."

Piranha leaned back against the uneven metal wall, thought for a moment. "So you sell slaves that have lived here for quite a while sometimes."

"Sometimes. The Boss doesn't like to let them get old and unsalable. We do have a few we keep – smart, trained, experienced ones, like the cooks or techs."

"How do slaves feel about being sold? I mean—"

Bubo blinked. "Feel?"

Piranha made a dismissive gesture. "Ah, never mind. The thought keeps hitting me, that's all. Just the name of the Black Hole was enough to petrify Elly."

The pirate eyed him with sudden curiosity. "Elly? Who's that? Not a slave? A _girl_ slave? _You,_ Piranha?"

"What are you talking about? You know, Elly – the little one —"

"Oh, wait! _Her!_ The tiny one, _that_ tasty bit. Haven't seen much of her in – that's right, the Boss gave her to you, didn't he?" Bubo cocked his head, squinting knowingly. "He must have wanted very badly to get on your good side, back then. Unless he was trying to get the crew mad at you. She was a popular little mite."

"She was?"

"Oh, very popular."

A look of faint distaste spread slowly across Piranha's features. After a moment, he said quietly, "Listen, Bubo. The bastard 'gave' her to me. That doesn't mean she's – she's _mine."_

Bubo grinned. "Then you won't object if some of your loyal men move in on her?"

Piranha leaped to his feet, eyes flashing. Bubo chuckled. "That's what I thought."

"Look, it's not—"

"Just joking, First Mate, of course you have your rights."

"Oh, for— Oh, never mind."

There was a brief silence, while Piranha sat back grumpily against the wall. Bubo said, offhandedly, "First Mate... Seems like the second mate was out with his gang this afternoon, readying the boarding arms."

Piranha sighed. "You noticed."

"So the trial didn't go well?"

"Might have gone better if you'd been there."

"Now Piranha, what good am I to you murdered? I'll collect evidence for you, but I'm not about to get my throat cut by _giving_ it!"

"Well, it probably didn't matter anyway. I couldn't believe what went on in that room. I still can't. The whole crew despises Hacker – I know they do – but he played the clown for them and they lapped it up. He didn't even try to defend himself – he couldn't. Everybody _knew_ he was guilty – theft, deception, cheating Anaconda _and_ his own gang, not to mention murder. He made fun of every charge, and – my god, he had the whole audience laughing. First at him, then _with_ him. Most of all, I think, at _me._ Why? Don't they remember the thousands of times Hacker's betrayed them or ripped them off? Don't they care?"

"They expect to be ripped off. They take it for granted. They're grateful when it's done with jokes. Piranha, _you _should have made them laugh. You did at lot better with the crew when you didn't take this whole 'First Mate' deal so seriously."

Piranha smiled sardonically. "I suppose you're right. I keep getting foolishly distracted by threats of death."

Bubo shrugged. "A trial wasn't a bad idea, Piranha. You just gotta remember that it's entertainment. Like every other public meeting. Treat it as entertainment next time, and you'll have no trouble getting anybody convicted of whatever you like."

Piranha squinted his eyes shut, rubbed his forehead. "See, you _should_ have been there. I need my political adviser. Okay. So what do I do about Hacker?"

Bubo took another puff on his pipe, found it empty, and stuck it back in his pocket. "I think you already know what I think."

Piranha snorted. "I'm not going to get rid of him by _becoming_ him."

"Hey, it's your funeral, Piranha." Bubo grinned. "I'm not criticizing you – I'm just some guy who actually _knows_ something about being a pirate."

"What I can't figure," Piranha mused, "is why Anaconda hasn't done anything about Hacker yet. He was in such a hurry to get rid of him awhile back."

The big pirate leaned closer to speak in a low voice. "Don't count on that. Things change. Don't ever count on the Boss to follow a straight line in any direction."

Piranha glanced at him with amusement. "You're full of good advice today, Bubo."

"I save it up."

* * *

He was supposed to be in Anaconda's chambers at 19:15. With nothing particular to do till then, Piranha followed his policing rounds through corridors already awash with celebration.

But what he was more uncomfortably awake to, now, was the slaves. Over the long months he had been on the Insurrection, they had gradually vanished into the scenery for him, become mostly invisible. Now that he looked, it was astonishing how many of them there were. They were everywhere, furtive as mice in the underbrush; darting nervously across halls, through doorways, behind crates, between clumps of hollering pirates; carrying small things, moving large things, delivering messages; and right now, many of them were tending to the pirates themselves, cleaning their boots, polishing their metal ornaments, trimming their hair and beards, and buffing robot carapaces to a shine.

The pirates themselves were rowdier than he'd seen them in a long time, maybe ever. When they saw the First Mate come glowering by, they'd straighten up a little, pretend to concentrate on something or other, but it was quite clear that the scant discipline he'd spent so much effort to build up had crumbled entirely into ruins. The men were roaring about the corridors in gangs, many clumping together to play dice or cards, quickly graduating to rougher games involving knives and other more improvised weapons, while others lolled around singing obscene songs, gossiping, trading insults, and yelling at the slaves who were nervously attempting to tend to them. The only ones who didn't break into fights every few minutes were those who were too drunk.

However, the chaos had its limit. With so many slaves around, no weapons were carelessly dropped, although cards, dice, cups, odd bits of clothing, and even money might be. It was pure reflex for any pirate to keep any slave, no matter how docile, from any hint of temptation. And even lying soused on the floor, a pirate would consider it beneath his dignity to speak to a slave in any way but a harsh bark. Meanwhile, the slaves were kept very busy propping their superiors against the wall, cleaning and grooming them much like worker bees caring for larvae.

All the slaves looked sickly, pale, hunched. Had they always been this way? Thin, underfed, skittish creatures. Elly had looked like that too, when he first saw her, anxious and tired, those lion-gold eyes huge in her sharp-boned little face. He'd seen that face again last night for the first time in months, at the mere mention of the name "Black Hole."

That damned ship. Piranha growled softly under his breath. Was it really so bad? How much worse off could you be than to live in servitude on a ship full of metal ruffians who'd captured you and murdered your village?

Anyway, she had the paper he'd given her. Dammit, she _wasn't_ a slave. She was free, _nobody_ owned her. He'd told her not to go anywhere without that document, and she damn well better not. With it, no one could lay a hand on her.

Piranha strode down the hall. He caught himself flinching now and then, when some enormous buffoon of a buccaneer stumbled too close to him – or when yet another wispy, grey little slave darted apologetically across his path like a fleeing sparrow.

Admit it, Elly had no confidence in that paper whatsoever.

Piranha took off his hat, running a black-gloved hand over his face and head. He sighed.

He turned suddenly. Behind him, down the corridor, there was an uproar of pirates, all bunched together, waving their arms, guffawing loud enough to penetrate the cacophony of celebration in the halls. This didn't look like a normal game, there was something moving in the middle of that cluster. He thrust his hat back on his head and made for the spot at a run.

As he ran, shoving aside alcohol-petrified bodies that swayed over him like trees, a tiny form burst out of the knot of shouting pirates and darted through the crowd in the corridor. Arms and legs flailing, it scrambled between thick limbs and over fallen trunks; then, for the first time seeing Piranha's approach, froze momentarily, turned and made a dive behind a groggy pirate seated on the floor (tankard of grog in hand).

Piranha dived right after the little creature, snatched hold of its brown, bare leg. It screamed, writhed, kicked, bit at his hands, then collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Piranha, keeping his hands on it just tight enough to prevent a sudden lunge away, reared up and glared at the nearby group of pirates it had just escaped.

"Where did this child come from?" he demanded. "What were you doing to it?"

They shrugged, some defiantly, some rather sheepishly.

"It was just running around," one of them muttered. "We didn't hurt it."

The others, like a group of schoolkids, shuffled and nodded.

Piranha growled. Then looked down at the child. Unconsciously, his black-gloved hands were stroking its back. It had already stopped crying. Its reddened eyes glanced up at him for just a moment before it closed them, stuck its thumb in its mouth, and curled up close against his boots with a long, heartfelt sigh.

He gritted his teeth. Angrily, he turned to another nearby pirate, who was lounging against the wall while a tiny, timid old woman polished his boots with frantic speed. "Did you see where this kid came from? Any sign of its mother?"

"Probly don't have one, First Mate. The slave quarters' full of these orphan brats. Don't usully get out, but you know how discipline goes all to hell when the BH arrives. Damn vermin." Aiming this remark, along with a mild kick, at the slave, who showed no reaction except to rub even faster.

"Right," Piranha said. He picked up the child – already, with an unnerving trustfulness, sound asleep – and, grabbing the old woman away from the pirate, shoved it into her arms. "You know where to take this?"

"Ah – oh yes – master – if it's okay with the other master here—"

"It's okay," Piranha snapped, over the pirate's startled objections. "Get going, and you make sure no more kids get out of the slave quarters today!"

Ducking her head deferentially, the slave skittered off with the sleeping child. Piranha watched until he saw them escape into an elevator. A pang ran through him. Then, shutting off with a scowl any remaining piratical protests, he moved on.

Admit it. Maybe he didn't have too much confidence in that paper himself.

[End of Chapter 14, Part 1


	32. The Black Hole, Part 2

_Nothing much to say about this except probably two more sections of Chapter 14 to follow. But they're getting shorter, aren't they?_

_The usual credits – Rayman © Ubisoft. Everybody else in this chapter is mine._

* * *

**Chapter 14: The Black Hole, Part 2**

It was not a good-tempered Piranha that entered the Boss's chambers promptly at 19:15. There was nothing prepossessing about those obsidian eyes, glowing darkly in the shadow of that large black hat like patches of half-congealed lava. There was nothing too engaging about the way he impatiently thrust the door aside, and the hat itself had a pugnacious tilt.

Anaconda, reclining grandly upon a chaise-lounge at the far end of the dark, ornately tapestried little room, smiled sardonically at the sight of him.

"Here he is at last! My prize possession!" he exclaimed as Piranha stalked stiffly across the carpet.

A huge, flabby human, standing beside Anaconda's couch, turned his head a little to see what had come in. Quite instinctively, Piranha winced, as though smacked in the face by a powerful smell. His eyes travelled incredulously up the expanse of a bulging, brown-swathed, mountainous being that could be no one but the Slaver.

As he stared, the human's fat-lidded, protruding eyes stared just as hard back at him. "By the celestial arc! What _is_ that?" boomed the man in a powerful, slow, rather jovial voice, unmistakably the same as that Piranha had heard shaking the bridge a few hours ago. A heavy self-satisfaction radiated through the sound, palpable as sunshine, if less warming.

Anaconda grinned (a disturbing operation, given those semihuman metal jaws). "That? The treasured souvenir of one of my conquests," he purred.

The Slaver cocked his massive head, squinting at Piranha with a professional eye. "May I?" he said to Anaconda.

"Be my guest," the robot replied.

Piranha took a step back, half-raising a fist as the human approached. His teeth gleamed in what was clearly not a smile. "Back off!" he growled.

"Piranha!" Anaconda clucked with gentle irony.

Piranha halted. Crushing his clenched fists into his sides, he became stone, except for the molten seething of those eyes. "Piranha," the robot went on, "kindly show some consideration for our guest, master of the Black Hole, a great benefactor to us all – Lord Ambrose Grouper."

"That's _Amadeus_ Grouper, you misbegotten pile of recyclables," retorted the human, with the forbearance of long familiarity. In speaking, he placed a heavy stress on each separate syllable, imbuing his speech with some indefinite but weighty significance.

Piranha's blunt gaze took the man in, noncommittally. Amadeus Grouper was a very large human, nearly as tall as Anaconda himself and much wider, with a broad, flattened head that blended into his fleshy trunk without any apparent need for a neck. From the pale yet reddish face protruded a pair of puffy, slate-coloured eyes, along with a nose so small as to nearly submerge in the valley between the mountains of his cheeks. The whole was topped with a surprising mane of auburn hair. Though much the size and weight of a pirate, his bulk was organized differently, a concatenation of soft spheres, lumpy in all the wrong places. Around his shapeless form was draped an equally shapeless monkish robe, of coarse brownish material – hardly the garb one would expect of a man making profits obscene enough to arouse the ire of the pirate captain of the _Insurrection_.

From the austere cloak the man extended a thick-fingered hand barnacled with large jewelled rings, reaching as though to take hold of Piranha's nose. Piranha, aware of Anaconda's admonishing gaze on him, stood tense, vibrating as the meaty hand plucked the hat off his head. His eyes, huge, black-hot, pierced murderously straight into the Slaver's.

"My, but he's cute!" the man cooed admiringly. "And all dressed up like a pirate! How many more of these have you got?"

"I'm afraid he's one of a kind," Anaconda replied with satisfaction.

"Nonsense," the Slaver scoffed, poking closer into Piranha's face and prying at his coat and vest. "There can't be only _one_ of any species, can there, little – what did you call him?"

"_Piranha,"_ barked Piranha himself. "If Anaconda couldn't dig up more than one, it's not for lack of tearing my planet apart."

"Oh, listen to that, now," murmured the Slaver, "don't they always bite the hand that feeds them?" Then pulled back rather sharply, as the small figure looked about to take him at his word.

Piranha snatched his hat out of the man's hand, clomped it back on his head, and folded his hands tightly across his chest, gripping his own sides. He was literally holding himself down; he would not give Anaconda the satisfaction of seeing him erupt.

The Slaver tilted Piranha's hat back. "Don't hide like that, pet. Let me get a good look at you. Hmm. Very odd, very odd. How old are you, my little fellow?"

Piranha only stared at him with incredulous, haughty distaste.

The Slaver glanced at Anaconda. "He does understand Galactic, doesn't he? – Now, lad, tell me —" With a sudden inflation of ponderous solemnity, much like a blowfish expanding, he turned back towards Piranha. "Boy, do you know what happens when you die?"

Piranha blinked. Then blinked again. His gaze travelling over the monkish hulk with deep suspicion, he said nothing.

"Well, Piranha?" Propping himself up on one arm, Anaconda was clearly enjoying every moment of Piranha's discomfiture. "Answer the man. What _do_ you imagine happens when you die?"

There was another pause. _"Here?"_ Piranha said, doubtfully.

Now it was Grouper who was taken aback.

"What's that got to do with it?" he rumbled. "Here or anywhere! Do you or do you not know what happens after death!"

Piranha's eyes faltered a little. He looked away, muttered, "Not here."

The human's sallow face flushed dark red. "What are you babbling about, you idiot!" he choked.

Piranha swallowed. Reluctantly, under Anaconda's coldly grinning glare, he fumbled, "I mean – Not here. Naturally... so far from – from home... how could I... know ... anymore?"

Both the human and the robot were staring at him, one with outrage, the other with something like suppressed glee. Blushing faintly, he raised his hands a little as if longing to ward off their eyes.

"I mean," he stammered, "Doesn't everybody? I mean—"

"Can you really be that much of a fool? Do you not know to Whom to turn in dealing with life's troubles?

Even more confounded at this apparent drastic shift of topic, Piranha gaped at him. "Who? Myself, of course, who else have I got left?"

The Slaver, straightening his imposing bulk up to its full monumental height, glared down on Piranha with a theatrical horror.

"Unimaginable! The most appalling, benighted ignorance I've ever seen!" he bellowed. "Anaconda, could you not have instilled at least the rudiments of understanding into this pathetic creature? Have you taught him no religion?"

Bursting into a paroxysm of chortling, Anaconda collapsed on his couch. Grouper, with a momentous snort, ignored him. "My boy," he said, bending down close to Piranha, "can it be you know nothing of the Glory of Universal Illumination?"

Piranha stared up at him, wonderingly. Then he brightened a little.

"Oh," he said. "Oh! I thought you—" As suddenly as it had faltered, his confidence flashed back. _"That's_ all you were talking about, isn't it. Your religion!"

"_The_ religion," Grouper corrected, threatening him with a fat forefinger.

Piranha relapsed into silence. Grouper turned his head to glare significantly at Anaconda, who merely went on quietly snickering.

The Slaver turned away from him again, shaking his head with the regretful, kindly wisdom of an unacknowledged prophet. Then, apparently feeling he'd sufficiently made his point, he abandoned his pompous attitude and gazed with fresh interest at the small figure before him, tilting his wide, somewhat wobbly head from side to side.

"Well, regardless of the vacancy inside his skull, the outside is certainly unique," he said at last. "I don't suppose, Captain, I could talk you into letting me have him? I'd give you a most equitable price."

"Oh, no, no, my Lord. I wouldn't dream of parting with him."

"What use is a toy like that to you? But think what I could get for him on Atchinor! The emperor there loves freakish dwarfs. Huge as his collection is, I can guarantee he's never seen anything like this!"

"No doubt. But, after all, I'm not about to sell you my First Mate."

The Slaver's large jaw, along with several chins, dropped halfway to his chest. _"What?_ This thing isn't really a pirate!"

"Indeed it is. And a most uncommonly vicious one, a murderer and slaver in his own right. Not really the kind of toy you're looking for."

The Slaver gave Piranha a sharply changed look – coldly evaluative. His hand darted into the nest of ruffles over Piranha's silky shirt, seized and pulled at the metal oval half buried within.

"By the Eternal Luminance, that _is_ your First Mate badge, ain't it? No, seriously – this pipsqueak – Nah! Why, you old devil, you nearly had me that time. This little poppet a pirate! Though now you mention it, he does have a brutish sort of eye – not so great for the novelty market." He pushed the small figure abruptly away, as though Piranha had been the one to come pestering him for attention. "All right, good joke, but – be serious! _That_ your first mate? Come on now, where're you hiding Blargh?"

A silence. As he gazed at his first mate, Anaconda's thin lips pressed together in an unsettling analogue of human malevolence.

"Blargh?" he murmured. "Oh yes, Blargh. It would seem the little poppet tore that one to pieces with his bare hands."

The Slaver's protruding eyes swivelled slowly back towards Piranha. His enormous bulk retreated a little, quite unawares, as though carried by a receding tide. Then he was looking somewhere else; the small black figure didn't so much as exist.

It was perhaps the one moment in Piranha's life that he breathed a heartfelt, if silent, sigh of gratitude to the Captain of the _Insurrection._

* * *

Having gotten the polite preliminaries out of the way, Anaconda and Grouper turned to business, and for the next three-quarters of an hour were oblivious to anything outside their often heated negotiations. Forgotten and bored, Piranha stood silently by, poking surreptitiously at the carpeting with the toe of his boot; now and then deliberately looking up to meet the shadowy glares of the Boss's and Slaver's assistants and bodyguards, who hastily averted their eyes.

He had no reason to be there, but he knew better than to try to leave. He hadn't been dismissed yet.

"Well, Condy old boy, it's sheer piracy, haha, but I'll let you have your price. Let's just get on with it. Carting fifty thousand slaves from one ship to another is a long job, and I want to get out of here. I've cooled my heels too long already in this sector from noplace."

"Piracy! I'll never be able to look any self-respecting pirate in the eye again after giving such a magnificent cargo away practically for free. There'll be gaskets blowing right and left, when the shares are made to the crew. But after all, I recognize a brute beast can be pushed only so far. How can one hope to reason with the intransigence of the mentally deficient?"

"Mentally deficient? Are you referring to your crew? Or to me, you – non-carbon based non-life form?"

Anaconda smiled, but only replied, "As an attribute, life is entirely subjective."

"Ah, fah, you and your highfalutin doubletalk. I don't think you know what it means yourself."

"Any more than _you_ are personally acquainted with the 'Universal Illumination'."

They had been scuffling at the far edge of playful insults, and now for a speechless instant seemed about to topple over into genuine anger, if not a physical fight; but after a moment, both retreated back to the more profitable zone of mere word-fencing.

"All right then," Anaconda purred, "That's the deal. A bulk price of two hundred thousand goldbiks for, as you say, fifty thousand slaves, give or take a few."

"Take is right, you electric buzzard. I won't accept less than fifty thousand, and I'm not counting anything substandard. I'm tired of you palming cartloads of infants and old wrecks off on me as though they were merchandise."

"Oh, you'll like the crop I've got this time. Topnotch, hardly any chaff. Shall we do an inspection?"

"Inspection! My assistants will be present during the transfer, monitoring the actual shipment in real time, thanks very much. Quality _and_ count. I'm sure you won't mind."

"Of course not." Anaconda again smiled that blade-like metal smile. "And you will of course deliver the advance payment into my hands, to be held under guard until the slave transfer is complete. And your vessel will not be released from our docking mechanism until we have settled to full mutual satisfaction."

The Slaver grinned rather more toothily than necessary. "It goes without saying. Your professionalism is a joy, Anaconda."

The robot nodded blandly. "Naturally. Now, after the inspection, my Lord, at 21:00 we'll be holding a celebration in the intake level for the whole crew. I trust you and your officers will attend."

"You know I wouldn't miss a performance on the _Insurrection_ for two year's profits, you rusty old reprobate! Of course I'll be there."

"Excellent."

And with such guarded pleasantries, they parted. During their conversation, Piranha had retreated gradually towards the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed. As Grouper and his bodyguards swept past him, he did his best to be pulled along in their wake.

"Wait a minute, First Mate." The voice an octave lower than usual, an ominous register Piranha knew all too well. He halted, remaining where he was as the Slaver's cortege trailed out of the room.

Anaconda clasped his slender hands behind his back, his thin whip jutting from them, and began to stride slowly back and forth in front of his first mate. Piranha stood stiffly in place, eyes blank, stolid as a soldier on review.

Anaconda's private chamber though luxurious was not large, longer but narrower than Piranha's cabin. At Grouper's departure the lights had dimmed almost to black, the darkness broken only by one intense blue-white spotlight in the center of the ceiling, beneath which the robot moved slowly, eerily, casting a stark, ever-changing shadow that waxed and waned as he stalked into and out of the light; his black figure subtly outlined with iridescent gleams, his dark red swirling cape almost purple. The silence, stubbornly unbroken by either the Boss or the First Mate, grew so dense even the strident beam of light seemed to be contracting, shrinking into the weight of darkness.

At last, with a decisive jerk the Captain halted directly in front of his First Mate. His small yellow eyes glowed strongly in his dark face.

"Why do I always hear wild stories about you, Piranha?"

"I suppose because people keep telling them."

Anaconda gave a startlingly unmechanical snort of disgust. "Today there was chatter about some sort of _legal_ shenanigans taking place on board. Did you have something to do with that?"

"Yes."

"Kindly elaborate."

"I put Hacker on trial. For thievery, extortion, and treason."

"You put him on trial."

"Yes. "

"Anything come of it?"

A short silence. "No."

For a moment Anaconda remained silent, unreactive. Then burst out, "Have you finally taken leave of your few remaining senses? What were you thinking of? Putting a _pirate_ on trial? What's he done that every other pirate on board hasn't done?"

Piranha raised an eyebrow. "Every other pirate on board hasn't stolen millions from his fellow pirates. Or stolen almost as much from _you._ Or sworn loyalty to me personally and then—"

"And then what?"

"And then – I can't prove anything."

Anaconda flung his arms up. "Prove anything? _Prove?_ Look, you're having a problem with that oversized rum keg? Just _deal_ with him!"

"Deal with him? How? You mean a Challenge?"

"I mean any way you want to. But handle it like a _pirate._ Like a _master._ Like a commander! Not like a – boiled oil, not like a —" He stopped abruptly; then added, his voice low, controlled, venomous. "Not like some book-bound, data-dotty, law-stifled, human-loving, fusty outmoded prototype of a _historian."_

Piranha's already stiff form tightened; his eyes widened fractionally, following Anaconda's every move as the robot resumed his stride. He said nothing.

It was clear from his increasingly jerky motions that the Boss was building up to one of his signature rages. He strode back and forth across the claustrophobically draped and carpeted room, occasionally slashing the air with his whip. There was no one else in the room now but the bodyguards, and they stayed posed against the walls like giant suits of armour, no doubt grateful to be uninvolved. Piranha himself, perplexed and uneasy after Anaconda's last remark, stood preternaturally still, awaiting the explosion. It came.

"_You,_ a pirate! Melted nanocircuits! Imagine _me_ having to defend _you_ to that salvation-spouting bobblebag! What have you ever been but a failure, a joke, a ghastly embarrassment? Savage enough to decimate my ship of half its robots, yes, but – oh, once he's a pirate himself, the yokel's suddenly superior to the whole universe! Too delicate, too fine, too dainty all together! Doesn't like slaves, doesn't like corruption, too fastidious even to get drunk!

"What have you done to my tumultuous pirate world? Where are the meaningless brawls, the pilfering? What happened to our factions and gang wars? Goodness, we can't have those anymore, Piranha doesn't _like_ them!

"And now – trials? What's next, democratic elections? You run this ship like a – librarian!

"Yet you were so _promising_ at first! I saw you kill a man right in front of me!"

"Actually," Piranha muttered, "I'm pretty sure he recovered."

"Aargh!" The robot flung out his hands again, striding away. Then snapped around, cape soaring, and thrust his whip, point first like a rapier, savagely straight at Piranha. Despite the distance between them, Piranha could not repress a flinch. Whatever one might think of Anaconda, there was no denying the power in those long metal arms, that swift metal body, the malignant mind that propelled them.

For a moment neither of them moved, their eyes locked in a glower, sullen yellow and flinty black. Then, with great deliberation, Anaconda lowered his sword arm and changed from a battle stance to one of negligence; bending his arms, lounging back on one foot, tilting back his head just slightly as if to regard the little First Mate from an even higher eminence, a contemptuous smile on his hard features.

"You can put on a decent show, little Guardian, I'll grant you that. For a while you had even me fooled. I was sold a pirate and leader of pirates, and only later found I'd bought a children's nanny. But you're going to reform. We're going to see some change. We'll start by having you attend the celebration at 21:00 tonight."

"What kind of—"

"Never mind. Just you be there. We'll find out if you're a pirate or not."

It could only make things worse, but the words at last broke out of him. "Anaconda – what do you _want_ from me? Surely I've done what I promised! Have I ever disobeyed an order? Haven't I halved the mortality of the crew? Haven't I cleaned up the ship? Haven't I filled it with more booty and more – slaves than it could hold? Aren't you three times richer since I came here?"

Yes, definitely making things worse.

Anaconda gave a contemptuous bark of laughter. "Right! Every order obeyed! Every promise fulfilled! You've followed your stinking contract all right! To the letter!" He rounded on the small figure, bending down to speak directly into his face. "Your contract!" Then straightening to his full height, he thundered down on the motionless Piranha.

"Do you think you're dealing with that fat grocer Grouper? Do you think being a pirate is a matter of balance sheets and inventories? Of mere material gain?"

Piranha flashed, "Don't try to tell me you've no interest in Grouper's gold!"

"Gold! – You _bookkeeper!_ Contracts! Damn you, a pirate isn't a pirate by _contract!_ He is what he is because he can bend the world to his will! A _great _pirate bends, the galaxy, the _universe,_ to his will!" His long arm swept the whip over his head in a wide arc, as if to display that universe for Piranha's contemplation. "Being a pirate is a matter of spirit! Of soul! Of _power!_ Not of some piddling words written on a flimsy piece of paper! A pirate's greatness isn't measured by _booty_ – he sees it in the cowering of his victims, the grovelling of his minions, the bloody death and destruction of his enemies!"

He paused, arm still raised, holding his pose, his grim little eyes fixed on Piranha.

"Yeah, that's it," Piranha muttered. "Soul. Greatness. And the prompt and generous payments of his slave dealer." He raised his hands deprecatingly as Anaconda's metal arm snapped down against his side with a clank. "Okay, Anaconda, I get it. I get it."

For a moment, the robot was frozen, paralyzed with fury. Then, as if ripping apart actual bonds, he wrenched himself away. He flung his metal body onto the wooden couch (which let out an agonized creak), and fixed his eyes on Piranha's. He held them there for a considerable time. It was astonishing, the depth of disdain that could be conveyed by those flat, blank yellow ovals.

When the robot spoke, however, his voice was quiet, calm, and precise. "My advice to you, 'poppet'," he said, "is to make up your mind. Make up that fevered, contorted little mind of yours. I know how much booty you've brought in, how many slaves you've captured, how many lamps you've repaired in the hallways. All very well – but what I see is that you _still haven't made up your mind."_

Piranha faced him stonily. After a moment, Anaconda flicked a hand at him, with frigid scorn. "Dismissed," he said. "Get out of here. I don't want to see your face again. Until 21:00, that is. Be there. Drunk, if possible. And see if you can't get a dent or two in you by then. Try to look as though you weren't assembled yesterday. I want a pirate as my first mate, not a – rosy-cheeked schoolboy."

Piranha wheeled around, but Anaconda's voice started up again, softly, smoothly. It slid into Piranha like a meathook, halting him instantly.

"Wait. Have you forgotten the future?"

Piranha didn't turn to face him. But it was clear he was expected to answer. "What?" he said, in a low voice.

"The future! Naturally, it _is_ harder to remember than the past, Piranha. Not having happened yet. But isn't that also its virtue? At least something _might _be done to save it. Unlike the past – which is quite, entirely dead. Not even you, noble posings and all, can rescue _that._ Don't get distracted, little Guardian."

A thin, cold shiver skittered through Piranha's frame. What kind of threat was that? What could it mean? If indeed the poisonous, gloating bastard meant anything at all.

He turned now, his cold eyes meeting Anaconda's with equal arrogance.

Oh yes, the bastard meant something all right. He meant it. Piranha's black gaze didn't waver.

"What, are you still here?" Anaconda murmured after a moment, as though only now becoming aware of his existence. Stretching out a little on his chaise-lounge, boredly he waved Piranha away.

Fiercely Piranha wheeled, lurching towards the exit, but had to halt again as his master spoke up once more.

"'Piranha'," Anaconda half-sang, with a sort of genteel derision. "Cracking flywheels, _'Piranha!'_ More like _manatee._ A dugong. My first mate is a flaming dugong."

Piranha half turned again, with carefully exaggerated patience. "— What's a dugong?" he inquired, politely.

"Oh, get out!"


	33. The Black Hole, Part 3

_Man, I didn't think I'd ever manage to finish this section. One or two more parts of Chapter 14 to go. Hopefully within this lifetime. Meanwhile, at least you have this piece to chew on. I don't have much to say about it – it follows directly after the last part. _

_By the way, if you don't recall the new character in this chapter, he turned up in chapter 7, part 2, about 100 years ago._ _Also, to give credit where it's due, I think his name was somewhat inspired by Specter-von-Baren's. Hope he doesn't mind._

_As usual: Rayman © Ubisoft Ent. (Personally I don't think they deserve him.) :D  
Everyone else in the chapter © me._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Fourteen: The Black Hole, Part 3:**

Dugong? _Schoolboy?_ Did that arrogant oil pan have the slightest clue what he was dealing with? _Who_ he was dealing with? Thousands of years a pirate, eh? How about being the guardian of a planet for —

Piranha stormed into the stairwell, surging so hard against the heavy metal door that it slammed thunderously against the wall, reverberating up and down the dark metal stairwell like an avalanche. Then it swung back, closing out the light and sound of the ship, sealing him into a dim, hermitic stillness.

Finally, he could take a deep breath. Alone.

But he wasn't. On the landing above, a slight, skinny young slave leaped to his feet in panic, something falling from his hand.

Piranha halted at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him. The slave gaped back at him, motionless.

Then, with a slight jolt, the young man inhaled. His bony frame folded in half, bowing till the pale, straggly mop on its head brushed the concrete floor of the landing. "My lord," he whispered. "My lord Piranha." Still bent over, he peered through tufts of sand-coloured hair at the first mate, as if to check the effect he was making.

"Oh, stand up," Piranha snapped.

The slave straightened. Piranha saw that despite the deceptive lankiness of his thin frame, the slave was not tall, perhaps only a handsbreadth taller than Piranha himself. The young man's narrow eyes, set in a long, pale, sharp-chinned face, were of an intense green. They met Piranha's with a strange ironic directness that was subtly both bold and submissive, and certainly calculating. "Such a striking honour to encounter the great First Mate in this unexpected place."

Piranha grinned mirthlessly. "Right," he said. "Quite strikingly unexpected, since as you know this particular place is out of bounds to slaves."

The boy continued to gaze at him alertly. "The inspections of the lord Piranha must encompass even the most insignificant of locations."

Piranha could not repress a chuckle. "Full points for furthest-stretched flattery. Now, if you don't mind, knock off the lording and grovelling, and act like a normal person. Or if that's too tough, like a pirate."

The slave's thin lips twitched, a hint of a smile. "Are you sure?" he said.

"I'm sure."

Instantly, the slave planted his scrawny rump on the floor, feet on a stair below, snatched up the rind of hard cheese he had dropped, and recommenced gnawing. Piranha watched him for a few seconds, a grin spreading somewhat reluctantly across his face. "I said no flattery, I didn't say complete _contempt."_

The boy's cool gaze took hold of his for the briefest glance, then nonchalantly flicked away. Piranha eyed him sardonically. "You know just how far to push it, eh?"

The boy shrugged, finishing his cheese. He licked his fingers. "As far as I can. That's a slave's duty."

Piranha climbed up to stand on the same stair, folding his hands across his chest, leaning his trunk against the metal bannister, and looking down on the young man with a grin that was not without the faintest edge of challenge. "And also to take the consequences when he pushes too far. Right? So which crime should you be beaten for? Being in the stairway, or stealing food?"

The slave returned him a disingenuous smile. "Whichever _you_ think more important, First Mate."

Piranha raised an eyebrow at the subtle impudence. Then laughed. "Well, by robot rules, I guess you'll just have to be beaten for both – when the robots catch you. Personally, I couldn't care less." Cocking his head, he met the slave's cat-green gaze, his own eyes narrowing. Green... "You know, you seem kind of ... Have we met before?"

The slave lowered his head deferentially, though the humility of his words was still subtly undercut by a hint of irony. "Naturally the First Mate would not burden his memory with anything so insignificant as a menial slave. But the slave would hardly forget the one who spared his humble life."

Piranha frowned. "Me? _I_ spared – did I capture you – No —"

"The First Mate encountered me before he became first mate, I believe. During a meeting to plan an invasion..."

Piranha gasped. "Oh! You're _that_ servant—"

The boy added, lightly, "I wouldn't forget a day like that, it was a little unusual. He ordered you to kill me. For some reason you didn't. Disobeyed! And got away with it! Unheard of."

"Let's clear that up right now," Piranha snapped. "I did _not_ disobey. He didn't actually _say_ to kill you."

The slave's shrewd gaze fastened onto Piranha's. "Strictly speaking, no, he didn't. But we all knew what he meant. Didn't you?"

Piranha took in a harsh breath. Then let it out with some force. Then closed his mouth. The slave, not too insolently, grinned.

After a moment, Piranha started again. "Look, what's your name?"

The boy smiled blandly. "Joachim Arlitherall Tacnar Wamerhoff Fenton de Vere the Fifth."

Piranha blinked. "A king's son, are you?"

"Pretty close. My father was the village goatherd. Mostly I get called Vee."

"Vee, eh? How long've you been on the ship?"

Vee shrugged. "Years, I guess. It's hard to tell, time is so different here. I was an apprentice, 15 years old when my village was raided. I suppose I'd be around 20 or 21 now."

"Apprentice? For what?"

Vee made a wry face. "Leather tanner and currier. I'm well out of that, at least."

"And what do you do on the ship?"

"Whatever needs doing. Cleaning, serving food, cooking when I have to. Servicing the grey boxes, I've done that too. But what I _like_ is mechanical stuff. The robots have so much our people never heard of – electricity, power generators, faster-than-time energy drive! And all kinds of metals and synthetics and tools... Anyway, that's what I tinker with when they let me."

"They let you tinker?"

"Sometimes. Pirates get lazy. If they're in a hurry and there's no repair robot handy, it's a chance for a slave to step in – the right slave."

"And of course you're the right slave."

"Sometimes. Truth is, life here isn't so bad. There's a lot more going on in this place than there ever was in that dusty, backward hole I came from."

"And apparently it doesn't worry you – the slave trader's ship?"

Vee shrugged. "Not really. I've made a place for myself on board. And also – the pirates are kind of – friendly towards me, some of them."

"Friendly to a slave? Really? They're not even friendly towards each other!"

Vee gave him a very direct, penetrating look. "They _can_ be ... now and then ... you know – the human pirates..."

"_Human_ pirates? Friendly? Why, they're more violent than the robots!"

Vee's gaze was still intense. "And you?"

"Me? Well, it's true, I have started a few brawls in my time..."

"No, I mean – could you be, uh, friendly? Towards a slave?"

Piranha eyed him, somewhat mystified. "Well... I haven't got anything _against_ them."

The boy regarded him searchingly for another instant, then shrugged and looked away. "Okay."

Piranha, his non-existent arms crossed over his chest, gazed at Vee for a time in silence. He tilted his head. As he stood there, thought visibly chased thought, filtering through those black eyes.

Then he smiled. He said, "Vee, you strike me as a pretty self-assured character, pretty confident – wouldn't you say?"

Vee's eyes narrowed. "Confident? I'm a slave. Slaves can't be too confident about anything."

"Oh, I think so. Not afraid of the pirates. Not afraid of being sold off the ship. Not even afraid of the First Mate." In the shadow of the big hat, those dark, uncanny eyes glittered like black opals.

Vee wilted. "I – _could_ be afraid of you."

"Oh, don't bother." Piranha waved a hand dismissively. "I think you're pretty clever, too. Kind of restless. Easily bored, eh? What do you say, maybe you'd like to try something new? A little adventure?"

Vee's face blanched, he swallowed. In a flat voice, he muttered, "Forgive me, sir. I misunderstood. I – Of course, anything you say."

Piranha slapped his hands together in a businesslike fashion, as though concluding a deal. "Great! How'd you like to fight a girl?"

* * *

Guided swiftly through the busy corridors by the First Mate's forceful grip on his arm, Vee pretended not to notice the multitude of glances shifting his way. But it was unnerving. Even more so was catching an occasional glimpse of the face in the shadow of that big hat. Piranha, usually so stern in public, had been acting strange ever since he started talking to him, Vee. And now – what else could you call those bright, grinning black eyes but _gleeful?_

Vee had long believed there was no twist any pirate could come up with that he didn't already know backwards. But that _look!_

What was he in for?

They moved quickly across the decks, into another staircase, and instead of heading up towards the human officers' quarters, they went down – down flight after flight, into the depths of the ship, until Vee began to worry they might be headed into the slave sections on the second and third levels. But to his surprise they emerged on the fifth, where the kitchens were. The kitchens? No, Piranha swept him in the opposite direction, towards a part of the ship so seldom used he'd practically forgotten its existence.

The metal-walled corridor grew increasingly dented, black with dirt and disuse, then finally ended at a sort of open archway. Through it he could see another corridor, but this one was made of wood. The Old Section! He'd been there once, years before, serving one of the ship's rare overnight guests. He hesitated.

However, Piranha hustled him forward. A few tough-looking pirates, indolently lounging about, glanced at the First Mate with even less interest than he showed in them. Vee was whisked rapidly past them, though the entrance into the ancient corridors. The walls were faced quaintly with brown wood, yellowly lit by archaic lamps in bronze sconces.

Once out of sight of the entrance, Piranha stopped, his tight grip halting Vee at the same time.

"Wait," he said. "You'll have to wear a blindfold."

Vee raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he should laugh. But Piranha was extracting a large red, silken handkerchief from the depths of his vest. Vee looked at it, shrugged, and closed his eyes.

Piranha folded the handkerchief, tied it tightly over Vee's eyes, checked it carefully. "It's corny, I know," he said. "But I don't let anyone see where I live. Just one of those things."

Vee didn't answer. Taking secure hold of the boy's arm, Piranha set off down the corridor. "Don't worry," he added, affably. "You're in no danger. At least not yet."

They moved at a fast pace through the halls, turning frequently down branching corridors. Past the blindfold, Vee could smell old wood, old metal, old dust, but could hear nothing but their own footsteps and the occasional faint hum of a defective light; see nothing except the red tinge of the handkerchief through his own closed eyes. They walked and walked; they'd probably turned back on their path a few times; he did not even try to keep track. He'd never be able to get out of here.

And no one would ever find him. But then, who would ever think to look for him?

* * *

Hearing the unlatching of the lock, Elly jumped eagerly to her feet. She smiled, seeing the black, feathered hat peer around the door.

Then, in mid-step, she halted, as the door opened more and revealed a small, thin young male slave, standing sheepishly in the hall, his face hidden by a red cloth.

"What's _that?"_ she demanded.

Piranha grinned. He drew the boy into the room, closing the door. Vee, clearly alarmed behind his blindfold, was casting about, trying to locate the unknown voice.

"Now, Vee, no matter what you see, don't panic," Piranha said. Gesturing at Elly to stay where she was, he slipped off the blindfold. "Vee," he said, "Elly. Elly, Vee. (Sorry, can't remember your full name.)"

As Vee's eyes cleared, they came into focus on a mane of cropped light auburn-gold hair, two huge golden eyes, the baleful glare of a predator. He took in a startled breath.

Was that a low growl he heard? He glanced at the unhelpfully grinning Piranha with a sort of reproach and offered Elly a feeble smile.

Elly's glower didn't yield in the least.

"Aren't you—" Vee's voice backed up in his throat for a moment, he coughed. "I – I think I've heard of you... Aren't you that girl—"

Elly thumped her foot on the floor. "Of course I'm a girl! And _I_ am First Mate's _personal_ slave."

Vee swallowed. He turned towards Piranha.

"So then – a girl? And you brought me here to – you want me – _us_ to —"

Elly's eyes dilated, she gasped, as a completely new thought took possession of her. Pale, she too glanced at Piranha, then her eyes met Vee's again, this time with a look of horror.

Piranha, however, a little surprised but amused by their evident panic, only chuckled. "Don't be scared, Vee. She's actually a very good-natured person, aren't you, Elly?" he said.

Elly's lips trembled, she didn't dare speak. She had never dreamed that Piranha could think of doing this to her, not Piranha – no, she had come to trust him, to trust him! — and yet, of course, with pirates betrayal was not only possible but inevitable. She could see it all, right there in that boy's tight, resigned face.

"Elly," Piranha was saying, lightly, "I brought him here for you. To practice on." (Vee's expression curdled even more.)

"Practice?" Elly croaked. _"Practice?"_

Piranha was growing perplexed by the depth of her distress, not to mention Vee's. Was a little scrap really that bad? True, she was still terrified of fighting. And the boy might be worried about hurting a girl.

"To practice your moves on, Elly. You know – Combat. Fighting. A sparring partner."

"Fighting?" Elly whispered. "Only fighting? That's all?" Her eyes brightened a little. Then another thought extinguished the light again.

"But is he going – is he going to _stay?"_

"Me? Here? No, no, no, no, no!" Vee gasped involuntarily.

Piranha grinned. "That's right, Elly," he said. "Just for lunch."

Relief poured across Elly's face at last, a parting of heavy clouds followed by a gleam of triumph. She fixed her eyes again on the boy.

"All right," she said. "Lunch."

Vee didn't at all like the way that word came out.

* * *

But before lunch, business. Piranha pushed the table and chairs out of the way, baring a good expanse of wooden floor. "How's this?" he said, cheerily. "Enough room?"

The two combatants shuffled into place at opposing walls, both gazing wistfully at Piranha as though secretly willing him to relent and confess it was all a joke. Happily oblivious to any such telepathic manipulations, he looked from one to the other with satisfaction.

"All right," he said. "Now don't worry about form at this point. You're just getting your feet wet. Vee, you attack Elly, any way you like, and she'll defend herself. Elly, you only stop him, don't do any major damage. Okay, everybody got it?"

Their piteous expressions appeared to be confirmation enough.

"Great!" Piranha said. "Ready?" He looked at the basset-hound droop of both his victims and chuckled. "Come on," he said. "This isn't a real fight. Vee, just run at her, try to hit her or knock her down. It's all right, you won't hurt her."

"Sir," Vee pleaded, a last gasp before going under, "I-I really don't know anything at all about fighting—"

"Good!" muttered Elly, darkly.

"It doesn't matter," Piranha said to Vee. "Just try."

Stoically, Vee turned to face the supple, tawny creature poised at the other side of the room.

There was an awkward moment. As soon as Vee's eyes came to focus directly on Elly, her ferocious glare sank; the sinew went out of her stance, the steel went out of her stare. But then, with a gust of smoky resentment, a small fire kindled in the depths of those gold-brown eyes.

Vee looked uncertainly at Piranha, lounging nonchalantly against a third wall.

"Okay, Vee," Piranha murmured, "why don't you walk towards Elly. Don't try to attack. Just walk towards her."

Cautiously, the boy took a step forward. Elly crouched a little. He took another step, a few more steps. With each one, the girl tensed, hunched lower, like a cat fixated on prey, eyes huge and round. Huge, round, and flat with a sort of frozen hysteria.

Suddenly Piranha lunged forward, flinging his hands wide, yelled, "Throw him!"

Both of the startled gladiators lurched. Elly's jump continued into another bound that brought her right up in front of the boy. As her feet hit the floor, she seized him by the upper arms, and without a pause launched again into an airborne somersault right over his head, yanking his body up to momentarily defy gravity as she arced over him, then letting go his arms and continuing her motion to roll nicely as she touched down – and he landed splat on his back.

Elly crouched on the floor, staring back at her conquered prey; terror, awe, and a sort of bewilderment chasing each other through her face. Followed by a little puzzled, hesitant smile as she slowly sat up.

Vee, on the other hand, lay stunned, if not quite dead; motionless, gaping blankly at the ceiling.

Elly climbed to her feet. She looked around the room uncertainly, as though she'd suddenly found herself there after dropping out of the sky. She walked over to the still prostrate Vee, reached out a hand to him. After a hesitation, he warily took hold of it and let her pull him to his feet. They stood uncomfortably, avoiding each other's gaze.

Piranha, sauntering over to them, was suppressing a smile. "Not bad, Elly. Kind of improvised, but it worked. Good job." He patted Vee's narrow shoulder lightly. "You too."

"Can I – can I go now?" Vee whispered, shakily.

"Come on, sit down," Piranha said. He looked at Elly, who dutifully led the boy over to the table, sat him in a chair.

Piranha smiled at Elly. "You sit down too. I'll get the lunch this time."

Elly took in a sharp breath. Nervously she perched on the edge of the hard wooden chair, watching intently as Piranha went to the galley and began rifling through her cupboards.

Vee, meanwhile, was gazing from one of them to the other. It was one of the most surreal moments he had experienced on board the Insurrection – first having been clobbered by a female lion; now to be watching the First Mate, second highest ranking pirate of the most violent ship in the known galaxy, casually putting together a meal for a couple of slaves.

To see a pirate in an unguarded moment was not a first for him; his life had more than once depended his ability to take artful advantage of such weakness. But weakness like _this_ – he had no idea what to do with it.

Nor with the wild beast in the chair next to him. A brief glance at her only plunged him back into the breathless terror of forest predators that had once haunted his childhood.

He averted his eyes. Best not to look at her. Or the First Mate's peculiar actions either. Unprotected witnessing of something that peculiar could easily get you killed.

Piranha came over, set down a filled plate in front of each of them. He grinned at Vee (who stared steadfastly at the floor), and then at the girl.

"Can you forgive him, Elly?" he said.

Elly clutched at the table, as though to keep either it or herself from exploding into the air.

Piranha sat down next to her. "Well, do you think you can at least forgive _me?"_ he added, half-seriously.

Elly was breathing in quick little pants, like a trapped mouse.

"Come on, admit it – you had a moment of pride there, of satisfaction, just for a second – didn't you?" Piranha teased.

She gasped. Then, letting go of the table, she did seem to explode. Vee threw himself underneath the heavy wooden slab as Elly flew out of her chair, bounced to the floor several yards away, and all in the same motion scrambled straight out the door. It closed behind her, muffling the sound of her feet skittering frantically down the hall.

After a moment, Vee's head emerged at the side of the table. Piranha was still in his chair.

"It's safe to come out now," he said dryly.

Clumsily, the boy clambered back into his seat. Surreptitiously he glanced at the First Mate. Piranha was contemplating the door, but didn't move. After a time his large dark eyes turned towards Vee. Vee swallowed.

"Go ahead," Piranha said. "Eat your food." He got up, went to the galley again, returned with a tray, metal jug, goblets.

Vee hastily lowered his eyes to the plate.

"You could probably use some of this." From the jug, Piranha poured some wine into Vee's cup, looked inquiringly at him. "More?"

Wine? Numbly Vee nodded. Wine was something slaves only ever tasted by theft. He watched Piranha pour again. Was the First Mate trying to get him drunk? Why bother? He could have anything he wanted without that.

Piranha added some water to the boy's wine, then sat down again. His gaze returned to the door, held thoughtfully on it for a few moments. Then he sighed and turned back to the boy, sitting hunched in his chair. "Aren't you going to eat, Vee? I promise I didn't poison you," he said mildly. "At least I didn't add anything to whatever is normally in that slop we eat."

Vee raised his eyes. This was the First Mate, feared, mocked and hated throughout the ship, fresh from a trouncing at the hands of Hacker only this morning – for however much the pirates tried to keep a united front before the slaves, everyone always knew what was going on. There he was, sitting across the table; gazing at Vee with the strangest air. There was a touch of fierceness there, a sense of distance Vee would never attempt to cross. At the same time, although there wasn't the least smile on his face, there was something indefinable, an atmosphere, a lightness, something – calm, unhurried, relaxed. And also intense concentration, very alert and direct, very focused on himself, on Vee. Yet with all that attention, there was no threat, no trace of – of greed, of possessiveness, of entitlement, of ownership. What kind of pirate refused to take whatever he wanted by force?

It was hard to meet that gaze. Vee felt obscurely ashamed. Piranha getting him drunk? No. No, and – whatever thoughts Vee might have had, cynical, fearful, or contemptuous, they had no connection with that strange dark creature sitting across the table.

Vee was a successful slave. He knew all there was to know about getting around every kind of pirate, high or low, human or robot. Given time, he could probably figure out how to manage that crazy girl as well. But – even to think of where to probe for Piranha's weak point made him uneasy. It wasn't just confusing. In some obscure, unnatural, rather horrifying way, it was _wrong._

Which put _him_ into a position of weakness he was afraid to think about. How blatantly obvious was it that he couldn't even look into Piranha's face?

Piranha, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to any hint of drama occurring. "Got enough food?" he said. "If you want more, just say so."

"O-okay," Vee whispered. For lack of anywhere else to look, he picked up the cup, took a sip of the wine. It hit him like a metal fist in the head and then melted the metal all though his bloodstream. A long sigh exhaled from him, and he took another, bigger sip. All in a rush he remembered that he was being offered a whole _meal,_ actual food. Both hands grabbed something off the plate and headed for his mouth.

"Go ahead, eat up," Piranha said, deadpan.

Vee did. There was no talking for a time, as with increasing speed the slave shovelled in food, Piranha impassively looking on. Vee kept glancing at him, wondering, still uncertain, but not about to let a crumb escape.

When at last the pace of the boy's chewing began to slow, Piranha murmured, "Feeling better now?"

Vee nodded. Piranha smiled. Instantly wary, Vee hunched a little. Piranha smiled more.

"Yeah, that's right," he said. "There's a catch."

Vee froze in mid-swallow and then had to cough for a bit, take a drink. Piranha was grinning. "Hey," he said, "it's not as bad as _that,_ at least I hope not."

As he drank, Vee eyed him narrowly over the rim of the cup.

"So," Piranha said, "Here it is. Would you be willing to keep practicing with Elly? Once she gets over her shyness, I mean."

Vee choked again, harder. _"Shyness?_ Yeah, a shrinking flower, that one!"

Piranha smiled. "I could teach you, too. So she wouldn't get away with murder."

Vee gabbled, "I – I mean – I'm – just really not – very good at ..."

Piranha gazed at him with such directness, such an entirely open and frank look, that he subsided in confusion.

"It'd be a generous thing, if you would," Piranha said. "She needs to learn. It'd be a chance for you to help somebody. And maybe it'd help you a little too."

Simultaneously, as if superimposed over the First Mate's voice, Vee could distinctly hear his words as they would be spoken by anyone else on the ship: sly, seething with half-concealed depths of meaning; brimming with innuendo, implications, promises, threats. But none of that was in _Piranha's_ words. When he said words, they meant nothing more or less than just exactly what they were.

More than that, he was talking as though he expected, assumed, that somebody might, for no reason at all, want to go out of his way to help a perfect – no, a very _imperfect_ stranger. He assumed that!

Never mind that this was supposed to be the vengeful, the punitive, the volcanic First Mate – the fact was, Vee had never met anyone in his life, pirate or slave, whose mind functioned in such an outlandish fashion as to assume that anybody would think it was _normal_ to want to help somebody. With no obvious benefit to himself?

Piranha was leaning back in the chair, with those steady black eyes intent on him. Those opaque eyes – for all their directness, for all their attraction, they held him outside, like bright forcefields. They rested on him, genial, detached, and oddly amused. _Can he read my mind?_ flashed through Vee's head in a panic. He got a grip on himself.

Those words – even those eyes, with their undoubted secrets – were an invitation to trust. Piranha had secrets – he was a pirate, how could he not? But that face, that gaze, with no faintest shadow of gloating in it... It was not possible, even for Vee, even after the life he had lived, to believe that this unnatural pirate had any kind of – had anything underhanded or cruel or – had _anything_ in mind for Vee and that crazy girl that he wasn't directly saying. No matter how obvious it would be with anyone else. Looking at him, it was simply unthinkable.

Vee felt dizzy. Abruptly he was seized by passionate longing, something he'd never felt before or even imagined – a longing to throw aside all his years of fear and mistrust and misdirection and, in fact, to simply answer in a straightforward way the straightforward question he was asked.

Whatever it was. He'd lost track of it by now.

"Well?" Piranha said. "Will you spar with her? Is it yes or no?" Vee sat motionless, looking blankly at the plate in front of him. Piranha pushed it closer to him. "Don't you want the rest?" he added. "You had enough appetite earlier on, trying to make a meal out of that old cheese rind."

Hesitantly, Vee picked up a scrap of bread. "What if I say no?" he whispered.

Piranha smiled. "A slave, not hungry? Really?"

"No, I mean – if I won't – you know—"

"Play with Elly?" Piranha eyed him with that faint, impenetrable smile.

"I – don't think the girl likes me, sir."

Piranha shook his head, still smiling. "That's nothing personal. Look, Vee, I realize I have an unfortunate history of using you as a punching bag. I know there's more to you than that. But it'd be helpful if you could bring yourself to go along with it for a little longer. Still, if you really don't want to, fine. It's your decision."

Vee, about to take a bite, halted with his mouth still open.

Piranha laughed. "Yes, your decision. Fair enough?"

Vee tried to complete the bite, failed. "But sir... why me?"

That wry smile again. "Well, don't you think you're a good choice?"

Vee got his teeth into the bread at last, savagely, and chewed it without mercy. "Yes," he muttered.

"Yes, you're a good choice?"

"Yes, I'll do it."

The words came out of him before he meant them. And as they did, though his sulky expression didn't change, a thrill ran up and down his body. He looked at the First Mate.

What was wrong with him? In all the uproar, he had almost missed it!

This was the _First Mate!_ When in his life would he ever get another chance to get in with the _First Mate?_ An inexperienced First Mate, so clueless he didn't know any better than to have an unkempt, untamed beast as his personal servant? Of course, she did have the unfair advantage of being female, but still –

Piranha was smiling, rather slyly, a touch of mischief glinting deep in those dark eyes. Vee looked away. What _was_ wrong with him? He who could face boldly up to any pirate when it would have the most effect – once again he felt an unaccountable twitch of shame.

Why could he not look into that face?

And why, why, why was Piranha grinning at him with such alarming – patience?


	34. The Black Hole, Part 4

This is a short bit, but I think the only way I'll get this section uploaded is to do it in segments. So take this snippet as a sign that the story is not dead and, for those who still care, more is to come! I'll probably add the new bits to this rather than uploading them as separate chapters.

This section follows directly after the last part which was posted um, a couple of centuries ago. So you might want to refresh your memory by taking a quick look at the last chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 14: The Black Hole, Part 4a:**

As Piranha prepared to leave for the "celebration," Vee hovered around him eagerly, taking hold of his shirt, vest, coat as Piranha took them off, brushing them, laying them out on the bed, even snatching the hat off his head. Startled, Piranha jumped back. Vee came after him and, pulling out a tiny, curved knife, grabbed for his head.

Piranha seized him by the wrist, forcing the knife out of his hand. "What the _hell_ is going on with you?"

"Sir! I was just going to trim your hair!" As he clutched at Piranha's fierce clench on his wrist, Vee blushed – realizing belatedly that to Piranha it must have looked like he had come at him with a weapon. "That's not a knife! It's just a hair-cutter!"

"Trim my _hair?_ What in metal tubing _for?"_

"To get you ready! For the performance! Doesn't the girl help you dress?"

"Good lord, no!"

"But your _body_ slave—"

Piranha, still gripping Vee's arm, involuntarily jerked his other fist halfway to launch position. Then lowered it. He stood still for a moment, taking deep breaths. Then, none too gently, he half-led, half-carried the young man over to the table and inserted him into a chair.

"Vee. Get this. I don't need your personal services. Now sit. Stay."

Rubbing his arm tenderly, Vee sat on the wooden chair. He sat. He watched Piranha. He fidgeted.

"Sir, why are you putting on that shirt? It's full of holes!"

"That's why," Piranha said.

Unable to make any sense of this remark, Vee ignored it. "I saw a much better jacket in the closet. This one needs—"

Irritably, Piranha yanked the shirt over his trunk, aerating it further in the process. He wrapped his old armoured vest over it, then shrugged into a tattered coat. "Just dressing for the occasion, Vee."

Vee jumped out of the chair. "But First Mate, don't you realize what's going on tonight? It only happens when the Black Hole arrives! Not even once a year! The Boss will—"

Piranha cocked an eyebrow at him and paused in thought. Suddenly, his face lit up. He grabbed his hat, yanked out half its plumes, and scrunched it down onto his head in a state of enhanced crumple. "There," he said, smiling demurely. "That should do it."

Vee stared at him. Piranha's almost offensively good grooming was notorious on the ship. But now he looked as though he had just returned from a lengthy tour of the chief brawling district of some heavily alcoholic pleasure planet. All that was lacking was to dump a bumper of hooch over his head and smear dirt on his face.

Piranha smiled more at Vee's expression. "Anaconda told me to look like a real pirate," he said.

Vee grimaced. "I guarantee that's not what he meant."

"I know," Piranha replied, with satisfaction.

"Finally find a patron, then lose him before ever getting any patronage," Vee muttered sourly.

* * *

As he guided the re-blindfolded Vee back through the corridors of the Old Section, Piranha patted him on the shoulder. "Security precautions are a pain, aren't they? We'll find another place where you and Elly can practice, so you won't have to keep going through this rigamarole."

_SHE goes out without a blindfold,_ Vee was thinking, unappeased. He didn't say it. What he said was, "Where – where do you think she went, sir? Should I look for her when we get out of here?"

"No, no," Piranha said. "She's probably thinking things over in one of the Old Section cabins. She'll be fine."

Under the bandanna, Vee made a face.

After emerging from the Old Section and removing Vee's blindfold, Piranha headed at a rapid stride for the elevator. Not receiving any particular discouragement, if no particular encouragement either, Vee tagged along. Although taller than Piranha and long-limbed for his size, he was having some difficulty keeping up.

Speeding down the hall, Piranha said, "Don't be alarmed if some disreputable-looking pirate shows up to fetch you in the next few days. It'll just be one of my men, to bring you for practice with Elly."

"How will they know where to find me?" Vee was panting slightly.

"They'll find you. They've seen you now." Piranha didn't so much as glance at him; the easiness of his manner in the cabin had evaporated. _This_ was the First Mate. No doubt his men – probably some of those unpleasant brutes hanging around the Old Section entrance – _would_ find him.

To Vee's relief, they arrived at the elevator. But Piranha didn't summon it. He glared at its door, scowling. "There's still some time before 21:00, I think," he muttered. "To hell with it."

Vee looked at the first mate inquiringly, but, still being ignored, he continued to scramble after the scraggly-plumed hat as it darted into the nearest staircase. Where was he heading now? The celebration would be on the lowest level. But Piranha seemed to want to go anywhere but there.

Momentarily glancing up at the dizzying spiral winding through ten levels of the ship, Vee wondered why Piranha had to insist on being so perverse about _everything._ Even as simple a matter as moving from one level to another. But he sighed, girding himself for far too much pointless work.

He couldn't help it – as Piranha had detected, he was curious.

* * *

Piranha seemed about to head up the stairs – then abruptly whirled and began clattering down, towards the lower levels. Vee followed, his enthusiasm diluting a bit. On the second and third lowest levels were the slave quarters. Vee preferred to avoid them as much as possible, often even managing not to sleep there. And right now, with the slave transfer going on... Well, if he stayed near the first mate, he should be safe enough from accidents.

Piranha passed the floor below the Old Section and continued to gallop down the flights, bypassing the two slave residential levels. That was good, but it meant that they were heading straight for the huge intake/docking area, not much of an improvement.

Arriving at the exit door from the stairwell, Piranha halted and turned abruptly to Vee.

"They're transferring the slaves to the Black Hole at this time, aren't they?"

A little taken aback, having been apparently invisible until now, Vee stuttered, "Yes, sir."

"Through the big intake level, I suppose?"

"Yes, where the ships are docked together."

Piranha turned back towards the door, hesitated. Something passed over his face – something not metaphorical, Vee would have sworn, an actual shadow. Then, with a resolute jerk of his body, he opened it. Vee, preferring to stay safe behind him, peered over his shoulder.

This entrance to the lowest level opened on a crude, twisting metal stairway that led down, with many sharp bends, quite a distance to the huge expanse of the floor. Stepping forward onto the small landing at the top of the stair, Piranha looked out over the entire level from above.

The enormous open space, broken only by rare supporting struts, was a bobbing, writhing, seething mass of human heads, a sluggishly moving current of human bodies. Slowly, like a flow of mud, they made their way across the space and up three enormous gangways at the end of the room, all converging on a giant platform leading to a single opening at least fifty feet wide: the exit from the Insurrection. Beyond that exit was the grey darkness of a tunnel.

At the other end of that tunnel must be the slave ship.

Around the perimeter of the room, as well as in strategically positioned clumps, hundreds of heavily armed robot guards stood motionless. Occasionally one or another would shove or kick a nearby captive he considered was out of line, but overall they seemed to feel their mere presence was sufficient. At the base of each gangway were five or six humans from Grouper's ship, each one accompanied by two or three robots from the Insurrection. All of these were evidently there to count and inspect the merchandise as it was loaded. The process was slow, with frequent squabbles and long hold-ups. The dense stream of slaves would coagulate into an apathetic clot, hanging listlessly until the blockage opened and the slow flow began again. None of them resisted. From where he stood, Piranha could not see any sign that they even cared whether they went to the slave ship or stayed. Something ancient and painful stirred in him, clenched like a fist.

He looked away from the platform to the thousands of beings milling about the floor.

There were faint sounds of crying, mostly from children. Some were being separated from their mothers or siblings, to remain on the Insurrection, presumably until they matured to a more saleable age. Some, a little older, cried with fatigue, boredom, fear, or hunger, while being shunted onto the slave ship in groups (not without fierce arguments from the Black Hole crew). But overall, the sound that arose from that immense mass of humans was only a sort of hollow, lifeless reverberation, a desolate echo, like the last pulsing of blood through the veins of something unconscious and dying.

Piranha took a long breath. He turned around, bumping into Vee. Roughly he pushed both Vee and himself back through the door. Vee shoved the door shut, with vehemence.

Piranha was motionless for a moment, leaning against the wall. His eyes were lowered. Then, with a jerk, he straightened. He glared at Vee.

"What did you think of all that?" he said, gesturing back at the door.

"Am I supposed to think of it?" Vee said.

"What, do you only have thoughts you're _supposed_ to have? What did you think?"

"I think I'm glad that I'm up here and not down there."

Piranha smiled bitterly. "So am I." Then gave a short bark of laughter. "If this ship has any gods," he said, "– and after all it's been through, it must have by now – I only hope they're paying attention. Although ... somehow I get the feeling that human gods take a certain pleasure in that sort of thing."

"Human gods?" Vee repeated, lost.

Piranha looked at him with a bedraggled little smile. "Or robot gods. Well, I suppose I'd better get going. The Slave Lord mustn't be kept waiting. I think, Vee, you'd be wiser not to go _there _with me."


End file.
